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MoRTE D'Arthur 



POEMS 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 



POET LAUREATE OF ENGLAND. 




PHILADELPHIA : 
PORTER & COATES. 



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'V--.or only for oarsolves t'le Cfod "IjCKCit 
Eros — Vv'^Aoevei', T[icio.s, v/as Ilis sire — | 
As once v;e tLonfi,lit; not' imto us the firist 
HavG lovely tliinf>,s sceii.ecl lovely; not to iis 
Mortals, wLo cannot see beyond a day; 
But lie, that heai't of i3rass, Ainpliitryon' s son, 
Vvho braved the rutliless lion, — he, tor. , loved 
A youth, the ^..raceiul Hylas. " 



"Hylas", 
TlLeocritus, Thiiteenth Idyl. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Rkvkbed, beloved— O you that hold 

A noWer office upon earth 

Ihan arms, or pow^* of brain, or birtSi 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brc??* 

Of him that uttered nothing base; 

And should your greatness, amd the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you tinie 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If i^ught of ancient worth be there; 

Then— while a sweeter music wakes. 

And thro* wild March the throstle cxdle 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun lit almond-blossom shakes — 

fake, Madam, this poor book of seng; 
For tho* the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Tour kindness. May you rule us long 



TO THB QUEEN. 

And leave U8 rulers of your blood 
As Hoble till the latest day I 
May children of our children say, 

" She wroufljlit her people lasting good ; 

" H«r eoait was pure ; her life serene ; 
God gave her peace ; her land reposed 
A thousand clakns to reverence closed 

1m h&r as Mother, Wife, and Queen * 

"And statesmen at her council met 

Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

Tlie bounds of freedom wider yet 

•* By shaping some august decree, 

Which kept her throne unshaken stliL. 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 

And compass'd by the Inviolate a6A." 

Uabch, 18S1. 



CONTENTS. 



CLASIBBL . • t • « • • t . . . . 1 

LILIAir s 

ISABEL 2 

MABIAITA 4 

TO ««■«........ 6 

MADBLIKB 7 

80KG. — THE OWL .......... 8 

SECOND SONG. — TO THE SAME ....... 9 

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE AEABL^LN NIGHTS , .... 9 

DDE TO MEMORY 14 

SONG . 17 

ADELINE 18 

A CHABACTES ........... 19 

THE POET . .«......., . 20 

THE POET'S HIND 22 

THE SSA-FAIBIE8 .......... 23 

THE DESERTED HOUSE . , S4 

THE DTING SWAN . , . . 25 

A DIBGE ............ 26 

LOVE AND DEATH 27 

THE BALLAD OF ORIANA ,28 

CIRCUMSTANCB 30 

THE MERMAN 31 

THE MERMAID ... 32 

SONNET TO J. M. K« . . . . 33 

THE LADT OF 8HALOTT 34 

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH ......... 39 

ELEANOKB 41 

THE MILLER'S DAUOHTKB .... ... 45 

rATIMA «..•*..•.... 63 



VI CONTENTS. 

(ENONE •,••.,64 

THE SISTERS •••• 61 

■TO ....•••■••t«62 

THE PALACE OP ART .•.•••... 62 

LADY CLARA VERB DE VERB ...•••.. 72 

THE MAY QUEEN 74 

NEW YEAR'S EVE •••••••••. 76 

CONCLUSION .< o ••»•••• . 78 

THE LOTUS-EATERS !•••••••• .SO 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN . 85 

MARGARET , ... 94 

THE BLACKBIRD 96 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD TEAB , . . . ► . - . 97 

TO J. S , , 98 

YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE 100 

OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS 101 

LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE FAR-BROUGHT . . .102 

THE GOOSE .... 105 

THE EPIC 106 

MORTE D'ARTHUB 108 

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES . . ,115 

DORA 123 

AUDLEY COURT .... 12fl 

WALKING TO THE MAIL 128 

EDWIN morris; OR, THE LASS ...... 131 

ST. SIMEON STYLITES z » 135 

THE TALKING OAK 140 

LOVE AND DUTY « . 148 

THE GOLDEN YEAR ,,.•.. c .. 151 

ULYSSES 153 

LOCKSLEY HAIJi 154 

OODIVA 164 

tHB TWO VOICES ..«••«.•... 166 

rHE DAY dream: — 

PROLOGUE , .... 179 

THE SLEEPING PALACB ........ 180 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY ........ 181 

THE ARRIVAL .......... 182 

THB REVIVAL ...,....., 183 

THE DEPARTURE ......... lUi 



CONTENTS. Vn 

THE DAT DRS-AM: — 

MORAL <•••... 185 

L'ENVOI 185 

EPILOGUB , ...» 187 

AMPHION 187 

ST. AGXES' EVB . . . 190 

SIR GALAHAD 191 

EDWARD GBAT . . . . 103 

WILL WATERPROOF'S LTRBCAL MONOLOGUE ... 195 

TO , AFTER READING A LIFE AJJD LETTERS . . .201 

TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE . . . . , 202 

LADY CLARE 203 

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH . 206 

SIB LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GLTNEVERB 208 

A FAREWELL 210 

THE BEGGAR MAID , . . . . . , . . .210 

THE VISION OF SIN 211 

COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 217 

THE EAGLE 217 

MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND LEAVE , . . .217 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK . , 218 

THE POET'S SONG 218 

THE princess: A MEDLEY 219 

PROLOGUE 219 

CONCLUSION , 29G 

IN MEMORIAM , 299 

UAUD 385 

rHE brook: an idyl 422 

THE LETTERS 427 

CHE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BEIGADS ...... i29 

ENOCH ARDEN 481 

aylmek's field 454 

sea dreams 473 

THE GRANDMOTHER 481 

TITHONUS 486 

THE VOYAGE 488 

IK THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 490 

THE FLOWER 491 

REQUIESCAT 491 

THE SAILOR BOY 492 

THE ISLET 493 

THE RINGLET 494 



VIII CONTENTS. 

A WKLCOME TO ALKSANDRA 495 

A DEDICATION 496 

BOADICEA 497 

IJf QUANTITY 500 

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE . 501 

THE CAPTAIN; A LEGEND OF THE NAVY 502 

COME NOT, WHEK 1 AM DEAD 504 

MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS 504 

THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE 505 

SONG.— "lady, let THE ROLLING DRUMS," 506 

SONG. — "HOME THEY BROUGHT HIM, SLAIN WITH SPEARS," . . 506 

ON A MOURNER 506 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON . . . .508 

THE DAISY 514 

TO THE REV. F. B. MAURICE 518 

WILL 519 

NORTHERN FARMER, OLD STYLE 520 

NORTHERN FARMER, NEW STYLE 523 

THE VICTIM 526 

WAGES 528 

THE HIGHER PA^STTHEISM 529 

FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 529 

LUCRETIUS 530 

THE GOLDEN SUPPER . ' 537 

THE WINDOW, OR SONGS OF THE WREN 548 

A WELCOME TO THE DUKE AND DUCHESg OF EDINBURGH . . 555 

IX THE GARDEN OF SWAINSTON 556 

THK VOICE AND THE PEAK 557 



CLABIBEL. 



1. 

Where Claribel low-lieth 

The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall 'a 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth. 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 

With an ancient melody 

Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

2. 
At eve the beetle boometh 

AthAvart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh. 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swell eth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous wave outweUeth, 

The babbhng runnel crispetl*, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 
1 



LILIAN. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love rne- 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She '11 not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 

When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyea, 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 

Then away she flies. 

'Prythee weep. May Lilian I 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May LiUan : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lipe 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Prythee weep. May Lihan. 

Praying all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I wiU crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

1, 

£yes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity. 
Clear, witliout heat, undying, tended by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 



Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread, 

Madonna- wise on either side her head ; 

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 

Of perfect wifehood and pui-e lowlihead. 

2. 
Tlie Intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime; a prudence to withhold ; 

The laws of marriage character'd In gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro* all the outworks of suspicious pride; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life. 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

3. 

The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. 
Till in its onward current It absorbs 

With swifter movement and In purer light 

The vexed eddies of Its wayward brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not anothai 
(ITio' all her fairest fonns are types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finlsh'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

%Ioriana in the moated grange."- Measure for Meamrt. 

l(ViTH blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : 
Unllfted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead 1 " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, ' The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 



Upon the middle of the nignt, 

Wakinoj she heard the night-fowl cro^ 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead I " 

About a stone-cast from the waU 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds w«re up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary 

I would that I were dead ! " 

AU day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creaked ; 

The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the mouldeiing wainscot shriek'd, 

Or from the crevice pee^-'d about. 



Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her fi-om without. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He conieth not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the Iscui 

When the thlck-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then said she, " I am very drearj 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, awearj 

Oh God, that I were dead ! " 



TO 



1. 

Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 
The knots that tangle human creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thiin^ . 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 
2. 
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 
Can do away that ancient lie ; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die. 
Shot thro' and tbi'o' with cunning words- 



MADELINE. 



Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth In her utmost need. 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 

And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of hghtning speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 
Until the breaking of the light. 

Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still 

In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE 

1. 
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm Is thine, 

Ever varying Madehne. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range. 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 

2. 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect In love-lore. 
Eevealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or ft-own be sweeter. 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine. 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each Is dearest brother ; 



SONG. THE OWL. 

Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 

3. 

A subtle, sudden flame. 

By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dance* *, 

When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown ; 
But when I turn away. 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 
But, looking fixedly the while. 

All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lijDS should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG. — THE OWL. 

1. 

When cats run home and light is come^ 

And dew is cold upon the grotmd. 
And the far-ofi" stream is dumb. 
And the whirring sail goes round. 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
^be white owl in the belfry sits. 



RECOLLECTIOXS OF THE ARABIA!^ NiGHXs 

2. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his romidelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfi?y sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 
1. 

Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight. 
So took echo with delight, 

That her voice untuneful gr^wi. 
Wears p\ day a fainter tone. 
2. 
I would mock thy chant anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o<K 



•RECOLLECTIOXS 

OF 

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me 
The forward-flowing tide of time : 



10 KF.COL LECTIONS OF 

And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussuhnan was I and sworn, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
Tlie fi-agrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Ah-aschid. 

Often, where ciear-stemm'd platans guan! 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmawn, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown cahn, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of joillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hoUow boughs. — A goodly tune, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 11 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkhng flints beneath the prow 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their crimson belle 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tia^s, fed the time 
With odor in the |,.Aden prime 
Of good liaroua Alraschid. 



Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bc^U^ul as he sung ; 
Not he : but somethmg which possess 'd 
The darkness of the world, delight. 
Life, anguish, death, immortal Icve, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding t^Tie, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 

Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged 

Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 

A sudden splendor fi-om behind 

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, 

And, flowing rapidly between 

Theii' interspaces, counterchanged 



12 RKCOLLECTIONS OF 

The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Ilaroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Ah-ascLid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-checker'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound. 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavihon of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn dooi-s, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade, 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame^ 



THE ARABIAIS; NIGHTS 

A mlUion tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
Tn inmost Eagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous tuae 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded -vjct 
Amorous, and liwhes Hke tj r.R;^ 
O^ darkness, and a brow of p^ar; 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought fiowere, a cloth of goi I. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroo^ Alraschid i 



13 



u 



ODE TO MEMORT 



ODE TO MEMORY 



Thou who stealest fire 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste. 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me I 
I faint in this obscm^ity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soffcen'd light 

Of orient state. 
^Vhilome thou camest with the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, 

When she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe ph^dge of fruits. 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with b:;iUiance rare. 

3. 

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open r^reast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sear, 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In s-v^et dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou oddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 



ODE TO MEMOKY. 15 

The eddying of her garments caught fi-om thea 
The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 

Of the half-attain'd foturity, 

Tho' deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of damitless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful ; 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illhnitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me I 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

4. 

Uome forth I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes i 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vme» 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the waU 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-sida 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's dcor, 
And chiefly fi^om the brook that loves 
To pmi o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn. 
The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. 

O 1 hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds. 

Upon the ridged wolds. 
When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
^Vhat time the amber moxn 
^orth gushes from beneath a iow-huno- cloud. 



16 ODP] TO MEMORY. 

6. 

Large dowries doth the raptured eye 

To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet show era 
Of festal flowers, 

Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 

In setting round thy first experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought gold , 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 

Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Ai^tist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bushless PiJie, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsL 
A\1iere from the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity, 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alle^^s of the trailing rose, 
Long alleys failing down to twilight grots^ 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender : 
Whither in after-life retired 
From brawling storms. 
From weary wind/ 
With youthful fancy reinspi.^ed, 



17 



We may liold converse with al] forms 

Of the nany-slded mind, 

And those whom passion hath not blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted, m\Tiad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 

Were how much better than to own 

A crown, a sceptre, »nd a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me 1 

1 faint in this obscxunty, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 

1. 
A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob ajid sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

2. 
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieve 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 
2 



18 



ADELINE. 

1. 
Mystery of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair^ 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wlierefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 
2. 
Whence that aery bloom of thine. 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon. 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well, 
Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of ihme, 
Spiritual Adeline ? 
3. 
What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their winga? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breati 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 



A CHARACTER. lb 

4. 

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 
5. 
Lovest thou the doleflil wind 

"When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from' the side of the monij 
Dripping with Sabeean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face, 
While his locks a-drooping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHAR4CTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of thin^s.^ 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit In air ; 

Then looking as 't were in a glass. 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his haii- 

And said the earth was besvutiriil- 

I 



)iO THE POET. 

He spake of virtue : not tlie gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye. 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicatelv hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd featui^es clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

^Vith golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scon*, of scorn, 

The love of love- 
He saw thro' life and dfcath, thro' good and ill. 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
Tlie marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongu«v 

And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 



THE POET. 21 

And vagrant melodies the winds wlilcli bore 

Tliem earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth an«w 

Where'er they fell, behold, 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely fumish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
i Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd In that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

^ Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 

And as the hghtning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder, 



22 THE poet's mind. 

So v/as their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 
1. 

Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 
For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

2. 
Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird oh ante. 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet-lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full. 
You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull 
So keep where you are : you arc foul wltli sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



THE SEA-FAIKIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foanr. 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prcst 
To little harps of gold ; and while thej mused, 
Whispering to each other half in fear, 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the hap[>j 

blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson sheUs, 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the ftili-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frohc and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, ftu-l your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and dal^. 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 

28 



24 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



And the spangle dances In bight and bay, 
And /the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords. 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak swet't words : 
listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who ca a light on as happy a shore 
All th«? world o'er, all the world o'er? 
Whltbe* away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly b6 
more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they I 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows Is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close. 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was bullded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



THE DYING SWAN. 25 

Come dway : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A. mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us 1 



THE DYING SWAN. 

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Wliich had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, • 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows, 

One wiUow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow. 

Chasing itself at its own wild will. 

And far thro' the marish green and still 

The tangled water-com'^es slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yeUovv 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear ; 

And floating^ about the under-sky, 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roli'd 



26 



Tliro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star 
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 
Tlie desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave 

Let them rave. 

Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Tliou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Tliou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music m the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave 

T^et them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 27 

Round thee blow, self-pleaclied deep. 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave.. 

Let them rave. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine , 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
Ir '■he green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AJSID DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 

Wlien, turning round a cassia, full in view 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 

And talking to himself, first met his sight : 

" You must begone," said Death, " these walks are mine 

Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 

Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : 

Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 

Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath. 

So in the light of great eternity 

Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 

The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 

l)ut I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF OKIAI!irA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the y-'Cw-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 

28 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. ?3 

While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oi'iana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Orlana. 

She stood upon the castle-Tvali, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard mc car. 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle-wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana 1 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana 1 

Oh I narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh 1 deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay. 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 



30 CIRCUMSTANCE. 

O breaking heart tliat will not break, 
Oriana I 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

cursed hand 1 O cursed blow 1 
Oriana I 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana 1 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea. 

Oriana, 
. I walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood t' as, 

1 dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 

I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leag , 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall 



THE MERMAN. 3] 

Two Kves bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisj-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 



THE MERIVIAN. 

1. 

Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne ? 
2. 
I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day * 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; 
And holding them back by their flowing lock"* 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-gTeen sea-groves straight and liigh, 
Chasing each other merrily. 
3. 
There would be neither moon nor star ; 
But the wave would make music above us afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nlor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call tc each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 
' Chey would pelt me with starry spangles and sheik, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between. 

All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in mine. 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
T would kiss them oftfn under the sea. 



32 THE MEllMAID. 

And kiss them again till they kiss'd ms 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh I what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean gi-een ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



TPIE MERMAID. 

1. 

Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 
2. 
I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ^ 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair j 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
*' Who IS it loves me ? wlio loves not me ? " 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would i^ 

Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Koimd the hall where I sate, and look in at the gat€ 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 33 

8. 

But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, 

And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
On the broad sea-vcids in the crimson shells, 
Whose silvery spikes ars nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek, 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; 

For I would not be kis»'d by all who would list, 

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 

In the purple twilights under the sea ; 

But the king of them all would carry me, 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 

In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft- 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 

All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : 
Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 
Browbeats his desk below. Thou from a throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 
3 



34 THE LADY OF 8HAL0TT. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley ar. d of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing wh-^re the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver^ 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 

Thro' the wave that runs fore' er 

By the island in the rivet- 
Flowing down t > Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gri y towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers. 

And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, wiUow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot 
But who hath seen her wave her hai d ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplljids airy, 
Listening, whispers, " 'T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott/ 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 86 



PART n. 



There she weaves hj night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot, 
She knows not what the curse may be> 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river-eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-chiu-ls. 
And the red cloaks of market-girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-laa. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the miiTor blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lad>- of Shalott. 

But in her web she stiU delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott 



36 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro* the leave«^ 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 



The gemmy brld\e glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle-bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

B^ide remote Shalott. 



All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 



His broad clear brew in sunlight glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode, 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
** Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir I-tejicelot. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 37 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-HIy bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plmne, 

She look'd down to Camelot 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
" The cm-se is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. ' 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
Tbat loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelut i 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



88 THE LADY OF 8HAL0TT. 

Heard a carol, mournful, bolj, 
Chanted loudly, cLanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn d to tower'd Camelot 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in hex song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her nama 

The Lady of Shalott. 



Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalc^" 



MARIANA IN THE 8C UTH. 39 



MAKIANA IN THE SOUTR 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the broodingr heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan. 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn, 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear, 
Still-Kghted in a secret shrine. 
Her melancholy eyes divine. 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And "Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and mom ; " 

And "Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won Ms praises night and morn ? 
And "Ah," she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn. ' 



iO MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 

And murmuring, as at night and mom, 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 

She felt he was and was not there. 

She woke : the babble of the stream 

FeU, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sear and small 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth. 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
^n image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away. 
So be alone for evermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone. 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn I " 

But sometimes in the falling day 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 

To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more.** 

And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 



ELEANORE. 41 

And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow fi-om the waJ. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn " 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she iiung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There aU in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper ghtter'd on her tears, 
And deepening thro* the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not mora 
When I shaU cease to be aU alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



ELEANOPvE. 

1. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not. 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, 
For there is nothing here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 

Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes fi-om our oaken glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 

The oriental fairy brought. 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. 
The choicest wealth of all the earth. 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 

To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



42 ELEANORK. 

2. 

Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'il • 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 

3. 

Who may minister to thee ? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded 

With many a deep-hued bell-like tlowei 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowy shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore I 

4. 

How may fuU-sail'd verse express. 

How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmgny 
Of thy swan-hke stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee ? For in thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine. 
Thought and motion mingle, 



ELEAJSrOKE. 45 

Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as the' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other meUow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore « 

5. 
I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore. 
Gazing on thee for evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 

6. 

Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asloep, 

Slowly awaken'd grow so full and deep 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light : 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round hh orb, and slowly gro-w 

To a fiiU face, there like a sun remain 

Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. 

And draw itself to what it was before 

So full, so deep, so slow, 

Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 

7. 
As thunder-clouds that, hung on high. 

Roof 'd the world with doubt and fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 



44 ELEANORE. 

In thee all passion becomes passlonlera, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a stiU delight, 

And luxury of contemplation: 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at wiU : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 

8. 
But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined. 
While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 
With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
]\Iy tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear fi^om thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knaw him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without. 

And full of dealings with the world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver cup- 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With sunmier lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There 's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by-and-by. 
There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same da/. 
45 



4b THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

Have I not. found a happy earth? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I 'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin sons. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan 5 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dreaK - 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise« 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones, 
Or those jhree chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that. 

When after roving in the woods. 
('T was April then,) I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool 



THE miller's daughter. 47 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
The phantom of a silent song, 

That went and came a thousand timeu 

T?:«en leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye , 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes 1 I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And fiird the breast with purer breath. 
My mother thought. What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meai 



48 THE miller's daughter. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blo\Aj 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill , 
And " by that lamp," I thought, " she sita . 

The white chalk-quarry from the hill 
Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 

" O that I were beside her now I 

will she answer if I call ? 

O would she give me vow ibr vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, 

The lanes, you know, were white with may, 
Your ripe lips moved net, but your cheek 

Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one 1 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

'*^ Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 



THE miller's DAUGHTER- 49 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heaHu 

Ah, weU — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to he 
Beside the m ill- wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper bj> 



It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so defir, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I 'd touch her neck so warm and whitft. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against m© 
In sorrow and in rest: 

And I should know if it beat right, 

i 'd clasp it roimd so close and tight. 
4 



50 THE miller's daughter. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day /ong to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 



A trifle, sweet I which true love spelb — 

True love interprets — right aione. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So. if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early ra^ 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in one 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut-shade 

1 found the blue Forget-me-not, 



Love that bath ns in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance thB years beget 
Love the gift is Love the debt 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fVet. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love? for we forget t 

Ah, no 1 no 1 



THE MILLER3 DAUGHTER. 51 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell 1 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 



Yet tears they shed : they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe. 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That Into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more. 



With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have fouad in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrougb* 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessings which no words can find. 



Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass. 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might I 
O sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 
Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 



Last night I wasted hateftil hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roU'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 



Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 
52 



53 



Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints hke a dazzled morning moon. 



The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 



My whole soul waiting silently, 

All naked in a sultry sky. 

Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him -b his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his fac«j 
Die» dying cliwp'd in his embrao& 



There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roar» 

The long brook falling thro* the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Beliind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 
54 



56 



" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
Kests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake ! O mountai: brooki, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
Beautrfiil Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyea 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard-skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's ; 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
»\^ant f^rth to embrace him coming ere h j came. 



56 



" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
That smelt ambroslally, and while I look'd 
And listened, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own (Enone, 
Beautlful-brow'd (Enone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind Ingrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to award It thina 
As lovelier than whatever Oread hmmt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest In all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added, ' This was cast upon the board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupor 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due : 
But light-foot Iris brought It yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice, 
Elected umpire. Here ooraes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
lyotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
This way and that. In many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro 

" mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 



57 



And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Eise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
"\V herewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,* she said, ' and homage, tax and toll. 
From many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of powei, 
' Which In all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail fi-om the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-bom, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.* 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm', -length, so much the thought of powei 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon hei pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-controi, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 



58 



Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for,) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence/ 

** Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not w*ith gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disr jbed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbicis'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds,, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown wiU, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden rou id her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
r.etween the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunhghts, as she moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
-The fairest and most loving wife iu Greece/ 



59 



She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear : 

But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 

And 1 beheld great Here's angry eyes, 

As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 

And I was left alone within the bower ; 

And from that time to this I am alone, 

And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she V 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep tlnro' them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 
And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind« 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 



60 



(ENONE. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
EVn on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 

1 a^s by the happy souls, that love to live : 
I pray thee, pass before my light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
"Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
"\^T?ereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hillfi, 
I«)k3 footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
ILil^lest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rvi^-s ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



THE SISTERS. 61 



THE SISTEKS. 

We were two daughters of one race '. 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But 1 loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro*. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 



62 THE PAI.ACE OF ART. 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 



I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it,) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds. 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain. 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind,) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisteri 

That doat upon each other, friends to man, 

Living together under the same roof. 

And never can be sunder'd without tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 

Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
1 said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or sbelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 63 

And "while the world runs round and round," I said, 

" Eeign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Stili as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In fhis great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Pour courts I made, East, "West, and South and North 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Ear as the wild swan wings, to where* the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one swell 

Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on erery peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 



64 THE PALACE OF AKT. 

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes, 
^Vhile this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet Incense rose and never fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, staln'd and traced. 

Would seem slow-daming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did paas, 
Well-pleEised, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 

From living ISJatiu-e, fit for every mood 

And change of my stiU soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue. 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Wliere with pufF'd cheek the belted hunter ble^t 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, 

And some one pacing there alone, 
"Who paced forever in a glimmering land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and faU 
And roar rock-thwarted imder bellowing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 
By herds upon an endless plain, 
I The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags. 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags. 
And liighest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight pov "* 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there 
Not less than truth design'd. 



65 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear wall'd city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
AVound with white roses, slept St. Cecily , 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging ail one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Hourip bow'd to see 
Tlie dying Islamite, v^ith hands and eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 
5 



66 THE PA LACF. OF ART. 

Or mjthic Uther's def^ply -wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping y^ztimf 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to beu 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd. 
And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blue unclasp'd, 

From off her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd ; 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

ITor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Curved out of Natiiie for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Tlien in the towers I placed great bells that swuc^ 

Mov'd of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was IVIilton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakspeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast^ 
From cheek and throat and chin. 



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 



Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

( With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, "i the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings 
Here pla/d, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 



Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 



But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 



V 



And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 



68 THE PALACE OF ARj. 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blufe. 

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and mm^muring in her feastful mirth 

Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord ov^er Nature, Lord of the visible earth. 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: "All these are mme, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
*Tis one to me." She — when young night divim 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 

And pure quintessences of precious oils 

In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide. 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell I 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 

VtTiat time I watch the darkening droves of s%vir,» 
That range on yonder plain. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 69 

•* Tn filthy sloughs they roll a prm-Ient skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And 'Irives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral Instinct would she prate, 

And of the rising fi-om the dead, 
As hers by right of Ml-accomplish'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

" 1 take possession of man's mind and deed. 

I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painftd earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years 

She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whc m ever lie bare 
Tlie abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 
W'rote " Mene, raene," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her seil-scorn. 



70 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



" What I is not this my place of strength,' she said, 

" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of bioo^i, 
And horrible nightmares, 



And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame. 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward fi-om the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 



A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world 
One deep, deep silence all 1 " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
I<ay there exiled fi-om eternal God, 
Lfxst to her place and name ; 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERB. 71 

Aad death and life she hated equally 

And nothing sa^v, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confiised with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all, alone in crime ; 

Shut up as in a cnunbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, '' I have fbusd 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she sai<l, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

" Yet pull not down my palace-towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



72 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 
• Too proud to care from whence I came 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blowi 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths ol you. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERB. 73 

Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce Is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Yere 

Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

There stands a spectre In your hall : 
The guilt of blood Is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Yere de Yere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, It seems to me, 

'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets- 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Yere de Yere : 

You pine among your halls and towers • 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as thesi 

Clara, Clara Yere de Yere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yecman ga 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
dear; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New- 
year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest 
day; 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

Tliere 's many a black black eye, they say, but none so 

bright as mine ; 
There 's Margaret and Mar)', there *s Kate and Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 
So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 

gay, 
1 or I *m to be Queen o* the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thougiit of that sharp look, mother, T gave hini yester- 
day, — 

But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 
74 



THE MA'S QUEEN- 75 

He thouglit I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not wJiat they say, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queec 
o' the May. 



They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
The}' say his heart is breaking, mother — what Is that to 

me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 



Tiittle Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made tlie Queen, 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo- 
flowers ; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and 
hollows gray. 

And I *m to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow- 
grass. 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 
pass ; 

Tliere will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 

play, 
For J 'm to be Queen o' tho May, mother, I 'm to be Qu een 

o' the May. 



76 new-year's eve. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mothei 

dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New 

year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you *re waking, call me early, call me early, mother 

dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It Is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more 

of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of 

mind; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never 

see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry 
day; 

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen 
of May ; 

And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 

Till Charles's Wain cam*e out above the tall white chimney- 
tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost Is on the 

pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy taU elm-tree, 

And the tufted jDlover pipe along the fallow lea. 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er tha 

wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, wiihin the mouldering grave. 



new-year's eve. 77 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
\n the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world \s 
still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning 

light 
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
Wll^n from the dry dark wold the summer aii-s blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in 

the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 

shade. 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly 

laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you^ when you 

pass. 
With your feet above my head In the long and pleasant 



r have been wild and wa}'ward, but you '11 forgive me now 5 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, T shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say 
And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for 

evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door . 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing 

green : 
She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor : 

Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never gardeo 

more : 
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush t1 at 1 

set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonett^^ 



78 CONCLUSION. 

Good-niglit, sweet mother: call me before the day is born 
All night I lay awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot 

rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that 

blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done 1 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergjrman, has told me words of 
peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair 1 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me 
there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me aU the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One w.li let 

me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch 

beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning 
meet: 



CONCI.USI0N. / J 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; ] 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was o'vo? 

all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt re- 

sign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell: of music on the wind, j 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 

And then did something speak to me — - 1 know not what 

was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for them, it 's 

mine." 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the 

stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
'The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Kobin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There 's many worthier than I, would make him happy. yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have he&a hia 

wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look I the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and ail of them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there Ins hght may 

shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 



80 THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day it 

done 
Tlie voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun ~ 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we 

such ado ? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Eflie come — 
I'o lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast ~ 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are fcf 
rest 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

" Courage 1 " he said, and pointed toward the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 

And some thro* wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery dropt 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set wdth slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd the saioe I 

A.nd round about the keel with faces pale, 



The Arj^onauts ( Tlieocritus , Xll 



i. ) 



''"^'^rouph momitain 
~ own 



clefts 



■^^^e aale 



'le 



les 



Al] 



T"iiC Ar.fvonaats ( TliCoci'itas , Xll 1. ) 

' ' T'l r oui-li iTiomi t a in c 1 e i 
V/as seen fai' inland, and the yellow down 
Bordei'ed witu palm, and many a vn'.ndin!;< vale 
And meadow, set v/iDi slender ;.,alinii,ale. ' 



Eiiropa , ( Mo s c") l us ,11,5, 4 ) 

'"When Sleep, ■, hat sweeter on the eyelids 
Than honey, and doth fetter down the eyes 
M±t1\ ^^entle bond. " 



ts the dale 



lies 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. ftl 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake. 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 



CHORAL SONG. 

1. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful ikien 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the popp}' hangs in sleep 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone. 



K2 THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

W"e only toil, who are the first of things, 

And malce perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor e^ er fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep om- brows in slumber's holy balm 

Nor hearken what the mner spirit sings, 

•* There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ^ 

3. 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and tjhere 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

4. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah, why 

Should life all labor be ? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fas*, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 

Let us alone. Wliat pleasure can we havj 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful e;iso 

5. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 



THE LOTUS-EAJJTERS, 86 

Falling asleep In a half-dream ! 

To cbeam and dream, like yonder amber liglit, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotus day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ; 

To muse and brood and live again In memory, 

With those jld faces of our infancy 

Ileap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of bi -^^ ' 



Dear Is the memory of our wedded lives, 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears : but all hath suffer'd change ; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold : 

Om' sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 

And we should come hke ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten years* war In Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things 

Is there confusion in the little isle ? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile : 

*T is hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 

Long labor unto aged breath. 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars, 

7. 
B'lt, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
IIow sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calHng 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 



84 



THF 1.0TUS EATERS. 



To watch the emcraicl-color'd water felling 

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 

Onij to hear were sweet, stretc'h'd out beneath the pine. 



The l;0tus blooms below the barren peak : 

The Lotus blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mello-vver tone : 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust is 

blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
RolFd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains 

in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the cbuds are lightly 

curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring dcepa 

and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho* the words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil. 
Storing yearly Uttle dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 't is whisper'd — 

down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oajr ; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we wiU not wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIK WOMEN. 85 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade. 

" The Legend of Good Women" long ago 
Sung by the morning-star of song, who made 

His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bm^sts, that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 

Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 

lliose far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars. 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs . 

And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 

Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blastg 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 



86 A DUE AM OF FAIR WOMEX. 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hush* I seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 

Bluster the winds and tides the self-same wav. 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spra}^. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was Hfted to hew down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow. 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 

And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lai^sing thought 

Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep 

Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 

In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew, 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneatn 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with cleareet g*eeu 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey done, 

And with dead lips smiled at the twihght plain, 

Half-faH'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of tiie inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 87 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd 
Their hiimid arms festooning tree to tree, 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses bm-n'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leavf^.s, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and fi-ee from blame. 

And from within me a clear undertone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime, 
" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, 
' Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call. 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there , 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 

Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 

Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answer'd free ; and tmming I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. 

To her full height her stately stature draws ; 

" My youth," she said, " was blasted with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 



^8 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 

Which yet to name my spirit loathes and leare 
My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, bUnded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighn 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 

The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; 

The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the short 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat ; 

Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 

" I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roU'd me deep below. 

Then when I left my home." • 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 

One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, "with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyet^-, 
Brow-bound with bm*ning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began . 

"I govern'd men by change, and so I sw;i}M 
All moods. 'T is long since I have seen a man. 

Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
Qne will ; nor tame and tutor Avith mine eye 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, 
Where is IMark Antony ? 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 89 

" The man, my lover, with whom I I'ode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. my life 

In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit^ 
The flattery and th-e strife, 

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 

Contented there to die 1 

*'And there he died : and when I heard my name 

Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my feai 

Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his fame. 
What else was left ? look here I " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh. 
Showing the aspick's bite) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever ! — lying robed and crown 'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fdl down and gian(3e 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and. flll'd with light 

The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of -captains and of kings. 



90 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. % 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 

A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and sooc^ 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine ; 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

M^ithin, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 

To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that diei 
To save her father's vow ; 

TTie daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimei 
With that wild oath." She render'd answer high 

*' Not so, nor once alone j a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, 

Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, my father — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 

Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 91 

•*Aiid I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" Tlie light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying fiame, 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 

A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, 

Strength came to me that equall'd my desire 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he "gave me, ere I fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

"Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 

ITiridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

Aa one that from a casement leans his head 
V^'hen midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, 

And the old vear is dead. 



92 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMKN. 

"Alaf ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me ; " Turn and look on rae ; 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
K what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor I 
O me, that I should ever see the light I 

TTiose dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 

To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died 

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beajns 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Mom broaden'd on the borders of the dark, 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who laieeling, with one arm about her king, 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull ptiin 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past years, 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By sighs or gi'oans or tears ; 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 98 

Because all words, tho' culM with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 

Wither beneath the palate, and the he;^ 
Faints, faded by its beat 



94 MARGARET. 



MARGARET, 



1. 

O SWEET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful powes'. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pai©^ 

Your melancholy sweet and ft ail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward-winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have wr« 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedetL 
^e senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 

Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth. 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

2. 

You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow ligt 
Float by you on the verge of night 

3. 

What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 

The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro* his prison-bars ? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can teD 



MARGARET. 95 

llie last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
Tlie burning brain fi^om the true heart 
Even in her sight he loved so well V 

4. 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you en your natal day 
Ycur sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes. 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adehne. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hua. 

And less aerially blue. 

But ever trembhng thro' the dew 
Of dainty-wofui sympathies. 

^ 5. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek ; 

The sun is just about to set, 
Tlie arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leafy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
-Jr only look across the lawn. 

Look out below your bower-eaves. 
Look down, and let your blue eyes davm 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves, j^- 



96 TUE BLACKBIRIX 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird I sing me something well • 
While all the neighbors shoot thee rovnd 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 

Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden-wall. 

Yet tho* I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that cold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarst 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning 1 he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 97 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and siow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die : 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived with us so steadily, 

Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-loT^ 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joy as you have seen with us. 

Old year, you shaU not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim 
A jollier year we shaU not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you. 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 
But he '11 be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, my frleu^l 

Comes up to take his own. 



98 TO J. 8. 

How hard he breathes ! over the sncw 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light bums lo-w ; 
Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you V 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack 1 our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend 

And a new face at the door, my fi-iend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More soflly round the open wold, 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'T is strange that those we lean on most, 

Those in whose laps our limbs are ntirsc^ 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 

He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Fails off, and love is left alone. 



99 



Tliis Is the curse of time. Alas I 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 

Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; 
One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to m>2 

Once more. Two years his chair Is sees 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 

I honor and his living worth : 
A man more pure and bold and just 

Was never born into the earth- 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine o^vn eyes fill with dew, 

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain/ 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind ; " 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all om- hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 



100 YOU ASK ME WHY. 

Vain solace I Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her threat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, « 

How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 

Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 
While the stars burn, the moons increase, 

And the great ages onward rolL 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to tbee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



Yon ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas ? 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 

The land, where girt with friends or fov^ 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 



OF OLD SAf FREEDOM. 101 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 

But by degrees to fulness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 

Opinion, and induce a time 

"V^Tien single thought is civil crime, 
And individual |^eedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost (ihoke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 

Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky 

And I will see before I die 
The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heigLts, 

The thunders breaking at her [eet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and fis'ild 
To mingle with the human race. 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fulness of her face — =• 



102 LOVE THOU THY LAND. 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 

And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

Tliat her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our dreauis, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes I 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' futm^e time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friemls, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble winge, 

That every sophister can lime. 

D'^iiver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day. 

Tho' sitting gii^t with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of mindB. 



J.OVE THOU THY LAND. 103 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 

Cut Prejudice against the grain : 

But gentle words are always gain : 
Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise : 

It grows to guerdon after-days: 
Nor deal in watchwords overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but lirra : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds — ^ 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 

And moist and dry, devising long, 

Thro' many agents making strong, 
Matm-es the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 

Our being, lest we rust in ease. 

We all are changed by still degrees, 
All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which llies^ 
And work, a joint of state, that plies ' 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 

For all the past of Time reveals 

A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 

A motion toihng in the gloom — 

The Spirit of the years to come 
Yearning to mix himself with Li la. 



104 



LOVE THOtr THY LANt. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dari 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

Thit we are wiser than our siretj- 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall close. 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guiitj 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

"Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho* dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and wordj 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that bi-oke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should riee 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 



THE GOOSE. 105 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 

As we bear blossoms of the dead ; 

Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it w^ windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. 

It is a storm-y season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 't was no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbors ; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 
And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doif 'd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hm-l'd the pan and kettle. 



100 THE EPIC. 

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning ; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and plain. 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out. 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger. 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger 1 " 



THE EPIC. 

A T "Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
Tli<: game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss i 
Benoa A the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 
Then half-way cbb'd; and there we held ? talk. 



TUK EPIC 107 

How all the old honor had from Christmas gone, 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 

In some odd nooks like this ; tiU I, tired out 

With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 

Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 

[ bump'd the ice into three several stai-s. 

Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 

The parson taking wide and mder sweeps. 

Now harping on the church-commissioners, 

Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 

Until I woke, and found him settled down 

Upon the general decay of faith 

Right thro' tlie world, " at home was little left, 

And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, 

To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 

On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 

" And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl." 

'• Why yes," I said, " w^e knew your gift that way 

At college : but another which you had, 

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 

What came of that ? " " You know," said Frank, " he bmni 

His epic, his King Ai'thur, some twelve books" — 

And then to me demanding why ? " Oh, sir, 

He thought that nothing new was said, or else 

Something so said 't was nothing — that a truth 

Looks fi-eshest in the fashion of the day : 

God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 

It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, 

" ^¥hy take the style of those heroic times ? 

For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 

Nor we those times ; and why should any man 

Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, 

Mere chafi and draff, much better burnt." " But I," 

Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth. 

And hav.3 it : keep a thing, its use will come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 

lie laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears ; 

For I remember'd Everard's college fame 

Wh«^n wo were Freshmen : then at my request 

He brought it ; and the poet little urged, 

But with some prelude of disparagement, 

l^^ad, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 

Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



108 MO.ITE D'ARTHUR. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day iong the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains bj the winter sea ; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep. 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of ban-en land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake Iving Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
Tliey sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Wliich was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
Li those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosim of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd acror^s 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In after-time, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"It is not meet, S\r King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man 



MORTE DAUTHUR. lOy 

Yet I thy liest will all perform at full, 

W'atcli what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So sa)^ug, from the ruinVI slirine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the j)lace of tojnbs, 
Where lay the miglity bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping d*" ^n 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
jM} "iads of topaz -lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiflT and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake Ring Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? 
VVhat is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word/ 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy j^ebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 



110 MORTE D'ARTHtR. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many mea 
What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept. 
Stoi-ed in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Soni" one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath ; 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted I Woe is me I 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thfu wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure t3f the eyes. 
iTet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
A.nd the third time may prosper, get thee hei:co 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
[ will arise and slay thee with my hands." 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. iii 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down tKe ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And llashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arcl 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So liash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm ^^, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Ai-thur, drawing thicker breath ; 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere r 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyehds, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard 
" My end draws nigh : 't is time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shouldei's to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, fi'om the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
KemorsefuUy regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 



112 MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
]S1 uttering and murmuring at liis ear " Quick, quick . 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other s^viftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he Avalk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry- 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and ail to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral-scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold - — and from them roBf 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them aU 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And aU his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like \ shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Ai^thur who, with lance in rest, 



MORTE DAllTIIUR. 113 

From spiir to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the" bold Sir Bedivere, , 
"Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the yeairs, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge ; 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fiilfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. ? 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? 
I hav« lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. 'More things are wrought by prayer 
Thar this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend V 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
"Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swaii 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 



314 MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell ; 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; 
I know not : but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
" There now — that 's nothing ! " drew a little back , 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bortJ 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, 
" Arthur is come again : he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " come again, and thrice as fair ; " 
And, further inland, voices echoed — " come 
With all good things, and war shall be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal. 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTSH 

OR, 

THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the day, 
"When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, 
Brother's in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juliet, slie 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moonr<. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found - 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her 

115 



116 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER J 

And said to nse, she sitting with us then, 

" When will you paint like this ? " and I replied, 

(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 

" 'T is not your work, but Love's. Love, unperoeiv'2-d 

A more ideal Artist he than all. 

Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 

Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 

More black than ashbuds in the front of March." 

And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go and see 

The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that. 

You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 

And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. / 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster-clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low. 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to hp. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? ''Where was bd. 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in grief. 
That, having seen, forgot ? The common mo: th, 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such' a mistress of the worid,^ 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet tl-is is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
' That sought to sow themselves hke winged seeds, 



OR, THE PICIURES. 117 

Born out of everything I heard and saw 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thouglit, 
That verged upon them^ sweeter than the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn^ 

And sure this orbit of the memory folSs 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares. 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward ; but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. And now. 
As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy. 
But shook his song together ae he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have jo}^ful thoughts. Think yoi they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for what tney have ? " 
And I made, answer, " Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love, 
That only love w^ere cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
DoAvn which a well-worn patliway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet-hedge ; 



118 THE gardener's DAUGHTER ; 

This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst ' 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 

" Eustace," I said, " this wonder keeps the house." 
lie nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, "Look! look !" Before he ceased I turn'ii, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
Tliat, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the liowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward Into greener circles, dipt, 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! 
But the fUU day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Hose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil. 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without ; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

"Ah, one rost>, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fin~?rs cull'd, 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but aii 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Kor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 



OR, THE PICTURES. 1 1 9 

DI /ided In a graceful quiet — paused, 

And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 

And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 

In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day. 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went, and all the livelong- way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
" Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home 1 went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features In the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd In the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchman peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolHng the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. 
Made, this night thus. Henceforward squall nor stcrra 
Could keep me fi-om that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city-rooms ; or fi^uits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more ami more 
A word could bring the color to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew- 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 



120 THE gardener's DAUGHTER ; 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd : 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade ; 
^Lud each in passing touch'd with some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
En wound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral-towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time we play'd ; 
We spoke of other things.; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ', 
And in that time and place she answer'd me. 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am thine." 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own energy fulfiil'd itself. 
Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memory with aad cye*s, 



OR, THE nCTURES. 121 

Holdiuj/ the folded annals of my youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my lips, 

And spake,'v" Be wise: not easily forgiven 

Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar 

The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 

Let in the day." / Here, then, my words liave end 

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
Tliat tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perpiex'd for utterance. 
Stole from her sister Sorrow, flight I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores. 
And in the hollows ; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing winQ, 
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veiFd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the tiia*; 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart. 
My fii-st, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darlmg of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine ag^ 



DOBA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them^ 

And often thought " 1 11 make them man and wife.'^ 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house, 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : 
T married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But William answer'd short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
122 



123 



And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh , 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary MoiTison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'u 
His niece and said : "My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest-time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you • 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone. 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Par off the farmer came into the field 



124 DORA 

And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He s])ied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you doing here V " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's child I " 
"And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone 1" 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers I'ell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widovv^hood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyseU'. 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 



DORA. 125 

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his gTandsire's knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
And clapt him on the hands iind on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

" O Father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 

* God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may be never knew 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By IMary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man bui-st in sobs : — 

" I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill d mj 
son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear sea. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 



126 AUDLEY COURT. 

Tlien they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's eh 11 (J 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

" The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all 
The pillar'd dust of sounding sycamores, 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horee and hound. 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half cut down, a pasty costly made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats, 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and ate 
And talk'd old matters over; who was dcitd. 



.'oaci 

,ned 



I ( Theocritus , VII ) 



/hen I and Eucritus 
i city to the rivers 1 

/ijuyntas. 

lin^^, saunteied on th 
liucritus and me 
m{^ ■ Amyntas , --having 
isida us, and lain do 
uit rushes and or^ lea 
J Lnes,-'-we took our fi 

of joy. were rustling in the 
^xia sacred rivulet 

cave was .murmuring a 
ceaselessly amid 
were chirping; fiom 
t;ie briers chanted s 
uid thistle -I inches s 
wei'e plaininj;^,; tawn^ 
Iqq ind the fountain. A', 

.h.inb:s near 3ned summer, all thii 
smelt tears were rolling c 
)ur feet, ^e ta^ang; to the gr( 
[ iggered, burdened wi^ 

ts fruit; -' brushed fiom a wii 
iar's mouth /^^rs unbroken." 



ir 
-11; 



The Tlxalysia ( Theocritus , VII ) 



•'It v/as tlie day v/Len I and Eucritus 
strolled fror-i the city to the I'iverst^g. 
.'Vith us a third, .Ihiyntas. 



road 



"he leftv/ard turniii;:-:^, saunteied on 

To pyxa; as for Eucritus and me 

:Vith handsome youuL^^ Amyntas , --having (v.ained 

Trie house of Phrasida us, and lain doj.^p^ 

On beds of fragrant rushes and on leaygs 

Fresh fromi the vines, — v/e took our fin of 



Poplars and elms were rustling in the, 
Ahove us, and a sacred rivulet 
From the iJymphs' cave was murmuring ; 
TliC I'ed cicalas ceaselessly am.id 

shady boughs v/ere chirping; fiom 
tree-fi'og in ttie briers chanted ; 
ci'est-laiks and thistle-finches 
tui'tle -doves v/ei-e plaining; 



joy. 



Tiie 

liie 

'Tj.e 

a^ii.e 

vVere hovering round the fountain. 

,Si._elt of the ripened summer, all thi: 

Of fi'uit-time. Peai's v/ere rolling , 

And apples for the taking; to the ;:;,r 

The plum-tree staggered., burdened v/i 



v;ina 



,nigh. 



i-mci we, meanv\^hile, brushed fi'omi 
The pitch, four years unbroken.' 



alar 
ihrill; 
sang , 
tawn:y "bees 

11 tilings 
igs smelt 
it our fef 
Dund 

til. its fri 
il ' s 1 



Wl];ie_ 



near 
:t, 



lit; 
louth 



AUDLElr COURT. 



127 



Who marritd, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall : 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, 
The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh*d aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — 

" Oh ! who would fight and march and countermar. !i, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 

" Who 'd serve the state ? for if 1 carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as weK have traced it in the sands ; 
The sea wastes aU : but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a wonmn once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turn'd fi:om her, as a thorn 
Turns fi?om the sea ; but let me live my life." 

He sang his song, and I replied with mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride. 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breas? 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 

" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 



128 WALKING TO THE MAIL. • 

The farmer's son, who lived across the bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having wherewitlial, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere, 
13id what I would ; but ere the night we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us : lower down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbor-buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 

John. I*m glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows loci 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. 
Is yon plantation where this by-way joins 
The turnpike ? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 

John. What is it now ' 
James. A quarter to. 

John. Wliose house is that I see T 
"No, not the County Member's with the vane : 
Up higlier with the yew-tree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's 
But he 's abroad : the place is to be sold. 
John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 
Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself. 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home v/ent overseas for change. 
John. Au d whither ? 

James. Nay, who knows ? he 's here and therB 



WALKING TO TUB MAIL. 129 

But let him go ; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 

John. What 's that ? 

James. You saw the man — on Monday, was i; ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; half stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tickling trout — 
Caught in Jiagrante — what 's the Latin word '? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
Tlie curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd ; 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 
And all his household stuff; and with his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, " What ! 
You 're flitting ! " " Yes, we 're flitting," says the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 
" Oh well," says he, " you flitting with us too — 
Jack, tm'n the horses' heads and home again." 

JoJm. He left Ms wife behind ; for so I heard. 

Tames, He left her, yes. I met my lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 

John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 
'T is now at least ten years — and then she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, 
New things and old, himseljf and her, she sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best : those manners next 
That fit us like a natm^e second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 

John. But I had heard it was this bill that past. 
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 

James. That was the last drop' in the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought 
4 Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince 



130 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

As from a venomous thing : he thought hiuiself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry- 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fritit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much content. 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college-tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair 
With hand and rope we hauled the groaning sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sow. 
And but for daily loss of one she loved, 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow v/as higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. 
And so retm^n'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 

John. They found you out ? 

James. Not they. 

/o^n. Well — aftei vl 
What know we of the secret of a man ? 
His nerves Avere wrong. What ails us, who are sound. 
That we should mimic this raw fool the world. 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites. 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it comts 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; 



O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. 

My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a yeay, 

My one Oasis in the dust and drought 

Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 

See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridge 

Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 

When men knew how to build, upon a rock, 

With turrets lichen-gilded hke a rock : 

And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 

New-comers fi'om the Mersey, millionaires. 

Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimneyed bulk 

Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin MDrris, he that knew the names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks. 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good. 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd 
Ail-perfect, finish'd to the finger-naiL 

131 



132 ED WIN MORRIS, 

And once I ask'd him of his early life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd me 
And well his words became him : was he not 
A full-cell 'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. 

" My love for Nature Is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love for hei 
My love for Nature and my love for her, __ 
Of difierent ages, like tw^in-slsters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move and change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fulfiU'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe. ' 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, 

" I take it, God made the woman for the manj 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuif. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and Increase of the world." 

"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too lev? : 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
]VIy faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a dream ? 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

" Give ? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in my heart. 
To save her little finger from, a scratch 



^R, THE LAKE. 133 

No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lifjhtest breaths : her least remark was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and came 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 
The flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd : 
\Miether he spoke too largely ; that there seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-conceit, 
Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a foil God-bless-you right and left ? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : 
I have, I tliink, — Heaven knows, — as much within 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place : 't is from no want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward moder'^ mind 
Dissecting passion. Time wiK set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 
" God made the woman for the use of man, 
And for the good and increase of the world." 
A nd I and Edwin laugh'd ; and now we paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
*T is true, we met ; one hour I had, no uiore • 



134 EDWIN morris; or, the lake. 

She sent a note, tlie seal an Elle vous suit, 

The close " Your Letty, only yours ; " and this 

Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn 

Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 

My craft aground, and heard with beating heart 

The Sweet- Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; 

And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, 

Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : 

Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, 

She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed 

In some new planet : a silent cousin stole 

Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, 

" O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, never : here 

I brave the worst : " and while we stood like fools 

Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 

And poodles yell'd within, and out they came 

Trustees and Aunts and Uncles, " What, with him ! 

GrO " (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) " hlra ! ** 

I choked. Again they shriek'd the burden " Ilim 1 * 

Again with hands of wild rejection " Go ! — 

Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in one rr.ontb 

They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 

To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 

And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 

And educated whisker. But for me, 

They set an ancient creditor to work : 

It seems I broke a close with force and arms • 

There came a mystic token from the king 

To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 

I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : 

Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : 

I turn'd onoe more, close-button'd to the storm 

So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 

Him ^L.ce, nor heard of her, nor cared to heai 

Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty ; not indeed, 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drought of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag.. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITE3. 135 



ST. SBIEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 

From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 

For troops of devils, mad Avith blasphemy, 

I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 

Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob. 

Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer. 

Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadOw and the cloud. 
Patient on this taU pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and sno«f 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the pahn. 

O take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundredfold to this, were still 
Less burden, by ten-hundredfold, to bear. 
Than were those lead-hke tons of sin, that crush'd 
My gpirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew ; 
i''et cease I not to clamor and to cry. 



136 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

While my stiff spine can hold my wearj head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified. 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfuliy I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O'my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment. 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets fi-om the weil, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all ' 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More tlian this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain-side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankmd 
Cm-ed lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 137 

And twice three yeai*s I croucb'd on one tliat rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I greAv 
Twice fen long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well. 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast suffered long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies. 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But vet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food. 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light. 
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, 
To Christ, the Virgin INIother, and the Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frc«t. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; 
A grazing Iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms 1 lift the cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 
O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and bom in sin : 
'T is their own doing ; this is none of mine ; 
Lci;,' it not to me. Am I to blame for this, 
That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : 
And I, in tnith (thou wilt bear witness here) 
Have all In all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 



138 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints. 
May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak I is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 
1 think you know I have some power with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark 1 they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint ! * 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. ,, 

I smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book ; 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 139 

And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Yoiir flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, 
With slow, fliint steps, and much exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that cciil 
Sing in mine eai's. But yield not me the praisr. 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this world. 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, 
When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. 

While I spake then, a sting of slirewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudhke change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! 
Surely the end ! What 's here ? a shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is i]i?d the angel th^re 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed broth sr^ coo 3. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ I 
*T is gone : 't is here again ; the crown ! the crown ! 
So now 't is fitted on and grows to me, 
And fi:om it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet I sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and fi:'ankiucense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
DeUver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light 



THB TALKING OAK. \ 

Once more the gate behind me falls | 
Once more before my face 

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 
That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah I with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man^ 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarized a Iieart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 
140 



1-e Bridal Of Helen (T>,eocr. 
- lotters on the baric 



t^us 



The Bridal of helGii ( TT-ieocritus aVIII) 
'In Dorian letters on the hark i 



THE TALKING OAK. 141 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under H'^aven 

None else could understand ; 
I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply- 
Is r.iany a weary hour ; 

1 were well to question him, and try 
Jf yet he keeps the power. 

S-BCa'^, tidden to the knees in fern, 

Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 
Whose topmost branches can discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, cam*. 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
Tlie good old Summers, year by year. 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

•' Old Summers, when the monk was fat 

And, issuing shorn* and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 

•' Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 

And number'd bead, and shijft. 
Bluff Harry broke into the « pence. 

And turn'd the cowls adriit: 

"And I have seen some score of tho«- 

Fresh faces, that wo'ild thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 

To chase the deer at five; 

"And all that from the tO"<r;\ would stroUi 

Till that wild wind ma.:,e work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork : 



THE TALKING OAK. 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

"And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
in teacup-times of hood and hoop, 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay 
About me leap'd r;:<.d la^igh'd 

The modish Cupid of i'ae day. 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, ibr whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboU'd on the greem 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of yeai-s — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade. 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 



THE TALEmG OAK. 148 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees In fern, 

^Viid overlook the chace ; 
And fi'om thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner- place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her waHi'S, 

That of^, hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy bouglia. 

" O yesterday, you know, the licir 

Was holden at the toirn ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

"And with him Albert c^me on his, 

I look'd at him with joy : 
Ah cowslip unto oxlip is,~*"~\ 
, So seems she to thirf boy. / 

"An hour had past — and, sitting straight 

Within the low-wlieel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Beliind the dapple giays. 

" But, as for her, she sta} 'd at honse, 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to ccme, 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please heraeli. 

" Then ran she, gameson as the t dU, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

"A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child • 



144 THE TALKING OAK. 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 

"And here she came, and round me play'<i. 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ; * 

"And in a fit of fi:-olic mirth 
She strove to span my waist ; 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands, 

That round me, clasping <iach in each. 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 
As woodbine's fragile hold, 

Or when I feel about my feet 
The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace ! 

Long may thy topmost branch discerii 
The roofs of Sumner-place 1 

But tell me, did she read the name * 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine. 

And found, and kiss'd the name she found 
And sweetly mm'mur'd thine. 

"A tear-drop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 



THE TALKING OAK. 145 

" Tlien flusli'd her cheek with rosy light. 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 

That, trust me on my word, 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

"And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 

Ihe ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 

The maiden's tender palm. 

**■ I, rooted here among the groves, 

Bltc languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were bri€;f 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the k C 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone. 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto.** 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowen^ 

But leave thou mine to me. 

10 



146 THE TALKING OAX. 

O flourish, hidden deep In fern, 
Old oak, I love thee well ; 

A thousand thanks for what I leam 
And what remains to tell. 

" 'T is little more : the day was warm ^ 
At last, tired out with play, 

She sank her head upon her arm, 
And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

'* I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and ife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

/ " Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 
' To light her shaded eye ; 
'> A second flutter'd round her lip 
J Like a golden butterfly ; 

"A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine. 

" Tlien close and dark my arms I spread 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head. 
An acorn in her breast. 

r " But In a pet she started up, 
I And pluck'd it out, and drew 

I My little oakling from the cup 
I And flung him in the dew. 

I 

' "And yet it was a graceful gift — 
I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lif^ 
His axe to slay my kin. 



THE TALKING OAK. 147 

" I shook him down because he was 
„. The finest on the tree. 

CHe lies beside thee on the grass. 
O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet In herb and fern, 

Look further thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discers 

The front of Smuner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may re&( 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss It twice, I kiss It thrice, 

The warmth it thence shall win 
To riper life may magnetize 

The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 

Or lapse from hand to hand, 
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor ye* 

Thine acorn In the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 

All throats that gurgle sweet ! 
All starry culmination drop 

Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 

And while he sinks or swells 
The ftdl south-breeze around thee blow 

The sound of minster-bells. 



148 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

(That under deeply strikes ! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes]' 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 
/' But, rolling as in sleep, 
? Low thunders bring the mello^v rain, 
That makes thee broad and deep I 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage-morn may tali. 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear f 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
Tn v/reath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime. 
Or that ThessaHan growth. 

In wliich the swarthy ringdove sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak. 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 

Till all the paths were dim, 
And far below the Roundhead rode, 

And humm'd a surly hymn. A^ 



LOVE AM) DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts f 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout 



LOVE AND DUTY 149 

For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law, 
System and emj)ire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway tfust ? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro. 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 
three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruii 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

Win some one say, then why not iU for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 
— So let me think 't is well for thee and me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it I For how hard it seem'd to me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dweU 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash. 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul 1 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse — beloved but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine. 
And crying, " Who is this ? behold thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 



150 LOVE AXD DUTY. 

If tie sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. 

Could Love part thus '? was it not well to speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill. 
And aU good things from evil, brought the night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart., 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye. 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 

O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thought* 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content. 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. 
And point thee forward to a distant light, 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 151 

Or seem to lift a burden from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refreshed, 
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown 
Full choir, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote * 

It vfas last summer on a tour in Wales : 

Old James was with me : we that day had been 

Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard there, 

And found him in Llanberis : then we crest 

Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up 

The counter side ; and that same song of his 

He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore 

They said he lived shut up within himself, 

A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, 

That, setting the how much before the how, 

Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, " Give, 

Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! 

To which " They call me what they will," he said : 
" But I was born too late : the fair new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age. 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of yestermorn. 

" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

"Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can but-U 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas, that daily gain ujjon the shore, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

"When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, 
But smit with fi-eer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 



152 THE GOLDEN YBAE. 

And light shall spread, and man be liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what' of that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Fly, happy happy sails and bear the Press 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land. 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " 

Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; whereupon 
"Ah, foUy ! " in mimic cadence answer'd James — 
"Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away. 
Not in our time, nor In our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live ; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 

With that he struck his staff' against the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but lul] 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this I 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death. 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into thejaag j but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the doore." 

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. 



J 53 



ULYSSES, 

Ii little profits tliat an Idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, cHmates, councils, governments. 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them ail ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fadt* 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 

To rust unbmmish'd, not to shine in use ! 

As tho' to breathe were Hfe. Life piled on Ufe 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
• Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 



154 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me - 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, fi-ee foreheads — you and I are old : 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not. unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs ; the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,^^: 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which Ave are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, wliile as yet 't is earlj 

morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the 

bugle-horn. 

'Tis tie place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley 
Hall ; 

Locksley HaU, that in the distance overlool^ the sandy 

tracts. 
And the hoUow ocean-ridces roarlns into cataracts. 



LOCfiSLEY A^x.U 155 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to 

rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow 

shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nom-lshing a youth eub- 

lime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time " 

AATien the centuries behind mc like a fruitflil land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it 
closed : 

\^Tien I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 

breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another 

crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts 
of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for 

one so young, 
And her eyes on ail my motions with a mute observance 

hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the t nith 

to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken w!th a sudden st-Orm 

of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of Uazel eyes-— 



156 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Sajdng, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me 

wrong ; '* 
Sapng, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? ** weeping, *^ I have 

loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and tum'd It In his glow- 
ing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran Itself In golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chorda 

with might; 
Sm( •« the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd In music 

out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses 

ring,_ 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the 

Spring. 

Many an evening by the watei-s did we watch the stately 

ships. 
And our spirits nish'd together at the touching of the lips. 

my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland 1 the barren, barren 
shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than aU songs have 

sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is It well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to 

decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than 

mine I 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with 
clay. 

As the husband Is, the wife Is : thou art mated with a 

clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag 

thee down. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 157 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent ita 

novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his 

horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed 

■with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in 

thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy 
lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my 
hand I 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's dis- 
grace, 
HoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of 

youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 

truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's 

rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the 

fool! 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less 

unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for 1 had loved thee more than ever wife 

was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which b?-ars but bitter 

fruit? 
I will pluck it fi-om my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years 

should come 
As tlie many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery 

home. 



158 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Where ia comfort ? in division of the records of the mi: d ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, 
kind? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she j>peak and 

move: 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she 

bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scom'd of devils ! this is truth the poet 

sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier 

things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put 

to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 

like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the 

wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise 

and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken 



To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt 
weep. 

* Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the 
phantom years. 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine 
eai-s; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy 

pain. 
Tm'n thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest 

again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will 

cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 



LOCKSLESr HALL. 159 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings tbee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touclies, press me from the mother's 
breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see the old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's 
heart* 

" TLsy were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself waa 

not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd" — Perish in thy self-con 

tempt 1 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy I wherefore should ( 

care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon da^^a 

Hke these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden 

keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets over- 
flow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 
When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid 
with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor 

feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's 

heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page- 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- 
Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the 

strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tmnult of my 

iile ; 



160 



LOCKSLEY Hall. 



Yearnlmj for the large excitement that the coming years 

would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's 

field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 

drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary 

dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 

then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of 

men; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 

new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that 

they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 

sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly 

bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a 

ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing 

warm, . 
With the standards of the peoples plunging tlu-o' the 

thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags 

were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful reahn 

in awe, 
And the kindly earth shaE slumber, lapt in universal 'aw. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 161 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaun- 
diced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, aU things here are out of joint: 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to 
point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a Hon, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying 
fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of 
the suns. 

What is Uio.^ m him that reaps not harvest of his youthtiil 

joys,' 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers and I linger on the 

shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and 

more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden 

breast, 
FuU of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his 

rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle- 
horn. 

They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their 
scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd 

string ? 
I am shamed thro* all my nature to have loved so slight a 

thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness I woman's pleasure, 

woman's pain — 
N'ature made them blinder motions bound/jd in a shallower 

brain : 



I 02 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Woman Is the lesser man, and all thy passions, mateh'd with 

mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — ■ 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some 

retreat 
Deep In yonder shining Orient, where my life began to 

beat; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starrM ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away. 
On from island unto Island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy 

skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of 

Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 
Slides the bin I o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer 
from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited 

tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 

march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake 

mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and 

breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky 

race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd they shall dive, and they shall 

run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lance* ip 

the sun ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 163 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the 

brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are 

wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian 

child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorioua 

gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower 

pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or 

clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in 
Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us 

range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves 

of change. 

Thro* the shadow of the globe we sweep Into the younger 

day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life 

begun : 
Rift ths hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh 

the Sun — 

0, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley 

HaU ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree 

fall. 



164 



Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and 

holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a th anderbolt 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire oi 

snow; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Coventry; 

I hung with grooms and porters on ihfi bridge. 

To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped 

The citi/s ancient legend into this: — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that pratf» 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well. 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, wr starve 1 ** 
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears. 
And pray'd him, " K they pay this tax, they starvo ' 
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as these ? " — " But I would die," said she 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — "Alas ! " she said, 
•• But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 
He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town, 
And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in S(;orn, 
He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds fi'om all the compass shift and blow 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 



GOBIVA. 16& 

Till pit/ won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and w'ndow barr'd 

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, 
Tlie grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She llnger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head. 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reanli'd 
The gateway; the?' he found her palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she caw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field 
Gleam thro' the n^othlc archways in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothed on with chas jity ; 
And one low churl, compact of thankless eart'j.; 
The fatal byword of aU years to come, 
Boring a little augur-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will. 
Were shrivell'd Into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and aU at once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hamm.er'd from a hundred towei-s. 
One after one : but even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
Aud built hei"self an everlasting name. 



166 THE TWO VOICES 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? '* 

Then to the still small voice I said , 
"Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully mads." 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie.** 

"An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mdJ. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they grc^?? 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " WTien first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied ; 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you this mould of hopes and feai^ 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ? " 

it spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 



THE TWO VOICES. 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, aU in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly ; 
" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or wiU one beam be less Intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Ts cancell'd in the world of sense ? " 

1 would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd In misery, 
Surely 't were better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep : 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, " The years with change advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can mako 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

"And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
WiU learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for light, 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 



ir>7 



168 THE TWO VOICES. 

" Not less the bee would range her cells. 
The ftirzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells.'* 

I said that " all the years invent , 
Each month is various to present 
The world with sonie development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho* watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? ** 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

" Or make that mom, from his cold crowB 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light. 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thcu lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
* He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 

Than once from dread of pain to die. 



TiiF rwo VOICES. 169 

" Sick art thoa — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of 111 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so boun'1 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fili'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride I 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me In the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — = 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move. 
To put together, part and prove, 
And meet the bounds of hate and love -— 

"As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about — « 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of aw«5, 
And reach the law within the law : 



170 TUE TWO VOICEa. 

"At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not m mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honored, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
Ilis country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd m smoke." 

" Yea I ** said the voice, " thy dream was goody 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

" Then comes the check, the change, the fail 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So Avere thy labor little-worth 

« Tliat men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 



THE TWO VOICES. 17) 

" Fcr every worm beneath the moon 
Draws difierent threads, and late and sood 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

"I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

"And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie. 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven r 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream^ 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream : 



172 TxTE T^VO VOICES. 

" But lie&rd, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n In the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" "V^Tiich did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 

Nor sold his heart to idle moans. 

The' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with •etonea 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

*' Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 

The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

"And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and fi:'oz'n to permanence: 

" For I go, weak from sufiering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? " 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died , 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There Is no other thing expressed 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 



THE TWO VOICES. 173 

" His lips are very mild and meek ; 
Tho* one should smite lilm on the cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-AvInd rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs 'i 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew. 
And darkness in the village yew. 

' From grave to grave the shadow crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 

* Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 

* We find no motion in the dead.* 

* "SVhy, if man rot In dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by thes*% 
Not make him sure that ne shall cease V 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

Bv which he doubts against the sense ? 



174 THE TWO VOICES. 

" He owns the fatal gifk of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 

" He knows a baseness In his blood 

At such strange war with something good^ 

He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shoAvn, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain 

'' The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

Afi when a billow, blown against, 

Falls back, the voice with which I fenf*^;! 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade i* 



THE TWO VOICES. 175 

A merry boy they called him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou -wert also man 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race. 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face. 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

"A life of nothings, nothing worth. 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth I '* 

" These words," I said, " are like the r&it 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" T cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

"As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

"As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and toucb. 



176 IHE TWO VOICES. 

" But, if 1 lapsed frDin nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of night 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho* all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and fame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

"And men, whose reason long was blind. 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory: 

" For memory dealing but with time. 
And he with matter, should she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something Is or seems. 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here 5 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said hi 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy mark. 
Who sough t'st to wreck my mortal ark. 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth. If I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul In orsfans new ^ 



THE TWO VOICKft. 177 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saitli, 

No life that breathes with human breatii 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'T is life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, . 
The sweet church-bells began to peju 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest. 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child. 
With measured footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure. 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My firozen heart began to beat, 
Eemembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice ysras at mine ear, 
A little whisper silver clear, 
A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 
12 



178 THE TWO VOICES. 

As fron some bllssfnl nelghborhoofl, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good.** 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side ; 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? " I cried 

"A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altho* no tongue can prove, 
That eve^v cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours. 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder'd, while I paced along : 

The woods were fiU'd so full 'with s ng, 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong 

So variously seem'd ail things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Eejoice ! rejoice 



THE DAY-DREAM. 
PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place, 

And order'd words asunder fly. 
179 



180 



THE DAY-DSSAM. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

1. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come. 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 
2. 
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden-lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fij-es, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 
3. 
Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily ; no sound is made. 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth aU 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 
4. 
Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and Ihflrf 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair ; 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 
5. 
Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shi~e, 
Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brinim'd with noble wine. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 181 

Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 
6. 
All round a hedge upshoots, and ehows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood , 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up, the topmost palace-spire. 
7. 
When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be bom again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men i 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPmG BEAUTY. 
1. 
Year after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 
2. 
The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever; and, amid 

Her frill black ringlets downward roll'd. 
Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beauty doth Inform 

StiUness with love, and day with light. 



182 THE DAY-DREAM. 



She sleeps : her breathings arre not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 

1. 

All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden wortk 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

2. 
The bodies and the bones of those* 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds.** 
This proverb flashes thro* his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 
3. 
He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there ; 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 
4. 
More close and close his footsteps wind : 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 



THE DAY-DKEAM. 183 

His Spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 

" Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 

How dark those hidden eyes must be I " 



THE REVIVAL. 

1. 

A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the haU, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
2. 
The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their strife. 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 
3. 
And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 
4. 
" Pardy," returned the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words retum'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



184 THE DAY-DREAM. 



THE DEPARTUKE. 

1. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old: 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 

2. 

" I 'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; '* 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this.** 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 



" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
** O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dea,vl I * 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

4. 

"A hundred sunmiers ! ean it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? "^ 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there.** 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro* all the world she follow'd him. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 185 



MOBAL. 

1. 

So, Ladj Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

"What moral is in being fair. 
Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 
2. 
But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest fi*iend ; 
So *t were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end 



L'ENVOI. 

1. 
You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's fi^iends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence fi^om the paths of men ; 
And ever}' hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars. 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
-The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth. 

And in the morning of the timea. 



186 THE DAY-PREAM. 

2. 

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny deeads new and strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 

The flower and quintessence of changa 
3. 
Ah, yet would I — and would I might 1 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake 1 
For, am I right, or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You 'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure thete t 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro*, 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-gracefiil head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 
4. 
For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may giYe^ 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 



187 



EPILOGUE. 

B«), Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? ** 
"VVliat wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



\ 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call. 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion I 
And had I lived when song was gres^ 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber I 

*T is said he had a tunefid tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 



188 



The mountain stirr'd its bushy crawa. 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young eishes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine-wreaths that bind her, 
And down the middle buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her : 
The poplars, in long order due. 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie : 
Each pluck'd his one foot fi'om the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And was n*t it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased,^half-frighteiQ'dy 
As dash*d about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lightened I 

Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure , 
So youthftil and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle I shake the twigs I 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff'-set sprigs, 

And sciiThous roots and tendons. 



189 



*T is vain ! in such a brassy ag* 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 
Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 

Lord I — 't is in my neighbor's ground^ 
The modern Muses reading. 

They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro* there 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses I how they proise 

O'er books of traveU'd seamen, 
And show you slips of aU that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho* fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toi^ 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 

1 '11 take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 
A little garden blossom. 



190 ST, AGNES' EVE. 



ST, AGNES» EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snoTTS 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes .• 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant doAvn the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord ; 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark^ 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord 1 and faPj 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 



He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All Heaven biu-sts her starry floors. 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

EoU back," and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride I 



Bin GALAHAD. 191 



SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of caeD, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

llie hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging hsts, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall I 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and slirim 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thnP 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and wilL 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hjonns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers bm'ning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound be^;we«iL 



192 SIR GALAHAD. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on lK")ard : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle somid, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail •. 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars > 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail| 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living bean^, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

TVTiose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and eye^ . 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 



EDWARD GRAY. 193 

•* O jusf. and faithflil knight of God 1 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale^ 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart ? " she said ; 

"And are you married yet, Edward Gray ? ^ 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
*' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 

Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" EUen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father*s and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea 
FiH'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
* You 're too slight and fickle,* I said, 

* To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

*' There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair I' 
13 



1^4 EDWARD GRAY, 

** Then 1 took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

* Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward Gray I ' 

"Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I wiU love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I tum'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Grsj ? ' 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 195 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 

MADE AT THE COCK, 

PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort, 

How goes the time ? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind. 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till aU be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine. 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favor'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New life-blood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

La full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of aU I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days 



196 WILL waterproof's lyrical monologue 

I kiss the lips I once have kiss*d ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro* a vinous mist, 

My college friendships ghmmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen. 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half- views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grape* ; 

K old things, there are new; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes. 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and shit4i 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 
Half-mused, or reeling ripe, 

The pint you brought me was the bef* 
That ever came from pipe. 



V^-ILL WATERPROOF'S LYftlCAL MONOLOGUE. 197 

But tlio* the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ V 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birthday coming on. 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in cne^ 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is I 

She answered to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 



198 WILL waterproof's lyrical monologue 

He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I th'iik he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modem poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
SIpt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 

And foUow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter. 
One fix'd forever at the door. 

And one became head-waiter. 

But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than common ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, bom of woman. 

[ ranged too high : what draws me dowK 

Into the common day ? 
[s it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have ^o pay ? 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLCBUS- 199 

For, something duller tlian at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare. 

To prove myself a poet : 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
ITie truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches : 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'T is gone, and let it go. 
*T is gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and look» 

Had yet their native glow : 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show • 



200 WILL waterproof's lyrical monologuk- 

But, all his vast heart sherrls-warm'd 
He flash'd his random speeches ; 

Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 
His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last^ 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 

Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we ftime, would shift our skim 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polished tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
-And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The comers of thine eyes : 



'^o 201 

Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 
Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death. 

Shall show thee past to heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

^ pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cuned be he that moyes my bonea." 

Shakspeare'a EpitapJu 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 



20^ Yo m L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 

" Pn oclalni the faults he would not show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : *t is but just 

The fliany-headed beast should know.'* 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 

A mng that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his oa earth, 

No biazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his asb'^ rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear hib heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON mS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass. 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age 



LADY CLARE. 20? 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 

Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 

The silver lily heaved and fell ; 
And many a slope was ricli in bloom 

From him that on the mountain-lea 

By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, 

To him who sat upon the rocka. 
And fluted to the morning sea. 



LADY CLAEE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-whit<j doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They two will wed the morrow mom : 
God's blessing on the day I 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair , 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nm-se. 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? ' 
It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 

" To-morrow he weds with me.'' 

*' O God be thank'd I " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair • 

Lord Konald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the La/ly Clare.** 



204 LAX^y CLARE. 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? ' 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 

"As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are ray child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread 1 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurw, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I *m a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not ie. 

Pull off, pull off the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear I 
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 

" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 
" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 



LADY CLARE, 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And foUow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid. 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clar^* 



205 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGIi 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I fcav ivatch'd the» daily, 

And I th\*jK thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

"There is none I love like thee.**. 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" T can make no marriage-present : 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love wMl make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses. 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse. 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lav betwixt his home and hers ; 
206 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 207 

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and ordur'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and iady» 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him deai-er : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend tnei'- la>t 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order aU things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his caU, 
While he treads wilii footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. | 

And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine. 
Proudly turns he round and kiudlj, 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bouiiiy, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free* 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance ail over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meeknea 

To all duties of her rank* 



208 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 

And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

And she murmur'd, " Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter, 

Which did win my heart from me 1 " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him. 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 

And he look'd at her and said 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 



Sm LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERi 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-Ilt fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 



6IR LACNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 209 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong; : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In cmwes the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into {he perfect fan, 

Above the teemmg ground. 

Tlien, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimra'd the plain? 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warbllngs, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet fi'om the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tlp&. 
A. man had given aU other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 
14 



21C THE BEGGAR MAID. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 

Flow, poftly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river: 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be. 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee^ 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. / 



THE BEGGAE MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
" It Ls no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies. 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes. 

One her dark hair and lovesome mieu. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

" This beggar maid shall be my queen I " 



THE VISION OF SIN. 211 



THE VISION OF SIN 

1. 

I HAD a vsion when the night was late : 

A youth came riding toward a palace-gato. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would have icwu 

But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

And from the palace came a child of sin, 

And took him by the curls, and led him in. 

Where sat a company with heated eyes, 

Expecting when a fountain should arise : 

A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 

As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 

Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — 

Suffused them, sitting, Ijang, languid shapes, 

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes 

2. 
Then methought I heard a mellow sound, 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembleci 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sighM, 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering \vide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died ; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they waited. 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid maze?. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue. 
Caught each other with wild grmaaces. 
Half-invisible to the view. 



212 THE VISION OF 8I». 

Wheeling witli precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near^ 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold. 
Came floating on for many a month and year, 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace-gate, 
And link d again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death, 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath, 
\nd lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



4. - 
" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stufl* his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What 1 the flower of life is past ; 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath 1 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with DeatL. 



TITE \^ISION OV SIIT. 213 

" T am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me win© 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine, 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 

When a blanket wraps the day, 
When the rotten woodland drips. 

And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee ' 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works : 

Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 

Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can . 

Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man. 

Every moment one is born. 

♦^ We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 

Thro* the courts, the camps, the schook 

[s to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

* Friendship ! — to be two in one — 
Let the canting liar pack 1 

Veil I know, when I am gone- 
How she mouths behind my back. 



214 inK VISION OF SEN. 

•* Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of helL 

" ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the mom : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they in^M 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

•* Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

** Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs ; 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 



TUE VISION OV SIN. 215 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 

Visions of a perfect State : 
Drink we, last, the public fool, 

Frantic love and frantic hate. 

** Chant me now some wicked stave, 

Till thy drooping courage rise, 
And the glow-worm of the grave 

GHmmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 

April hopes, the fools of chance ; 
Till the graves begin to move, 

And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up. 

And Is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping fi-om their mouldy dens 

The chap-fallen circle spreads : 
Welcome, feUow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads 1 

" You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however fiill. 
Padded round with flesh and fat. 

Is but modeird on a skuU. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex I 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bonea 



'^16 THE V^ISION OF SLN. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet youi x.^. . 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo 1 God's likeness — the ground-plaa -='- 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed : 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed 1 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath 1 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death I 

*' Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near: 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can 1 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn I 

Dregs of life, and lees of man : 
Yet we will not die forlorn.'* 
5. 
The voice grew faint : there came a further change : 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : 
Below were men and horses pierced with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross. 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." 
Another said : " The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 
And one : " He had not wholly quench'd his power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there aziy hope ? " 
To which an answer peal'd from that high l.ind. 



THE EAGJLE. 217 



But in A tongue no man could understand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made Himself an awtiJ rose of dawn. 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my Mien head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie ; 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 



FRAGMKNT. 



He clasps the crag with hooked hands •, 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain-walLs, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



/ Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
i Yon orange sunset waning slow ; 
From fringes of the faded eve, 

O, happy planet, eastward go ; 

TiU over thy dark shoulder glow 

Thy silver sister-world, and ri.-e 

To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below 



218 



THE POET S SONG. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly bome> 

Dip forward mider starry hght, 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 

\^ And round again to happy night. / 

— ♦— . 

{ Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gi-ay stones, Sea I 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play i 

O well for the sailor-lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet. 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet- 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee. 

The snake slipt under a spray. 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, " I have surg many songs 

But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 



PROLOGUE. 219 



THI PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

PROLOGUE. 
Sir Walter "Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave liis broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring borough with their Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian-place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than theii nameSi 
Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the fii-st bones of Timfe ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, 
Cla}Tnore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isJes of palm ; and higher on the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

And " this," he said, " was Hugh's at Agincourt 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him " — which he brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arni'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate. 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 

" O miracle of women," said the book, 
" O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Noi bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as lost — 



220 nioLOGUE. 

Ht,r stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt. 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the whirling brook 
O miracle of noble womanhood I '* 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," he said, 
•' Td the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the slope. 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and phials fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter : round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam: 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport. 
Went hand in hand with Science ; otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies roll'd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids 
Arranged a country-danco, and flew thro' light 



PROLOGUE. 2il 

And sliadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and fi^ost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden-lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends • 
From neighbor seats : and there was Ralph himself^ 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport. 
Half child half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests, 
And there we join'd them : then the maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and fi-om it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great ; but we, unworthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men. 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord.; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walk. 
And much I praised her nobleness, and " Where " 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman now ? " 



222 



PROLOGUE. 



Quick answer'cl Lilia, " There are thousands noit 
Such women, but convention beats them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how I hate you all I 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great Princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's, 
And I would teach them all that men are taught ; 
We are twice as quick ! " And here she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her curls. 

And on^ said smiling, " Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty gowns. 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
" That 's your light way ; but I would make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulent she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd ; 
A rosebud set with little wiliul thorns, 
And sweet as Enghsh air could make her, she : 
But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, only long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of poUtlcs ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the souls of dean* 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms, 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place. 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much. 
I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 



PROLOGUE. 223 

She held it out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' giit wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
» And -wrung it. " Doubt my word again ! " he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and ti(|uare 
Were out of season : never man, I think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail ; often, hke as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here. 
And what *s my thought and when and ichere and limo. 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men tell men. 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her hps : 
And Walter nodded at me ; " He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms. 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia ; " Why not now ? " the maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's tale ? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath. 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 



224 THE PRINCESS : 

An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 

Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 

(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face 

"With color) turn'd to meet me with "As you will ; 

Heroic if you will, or what you will, 

Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

" Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clamor'd he, 
"And make her some great Princess, six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

" Then follow me, the Prinue ' 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required — 
But something made to suit with Time and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all — 
This were a medley I we should have him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some baUad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest foUow'd : and the women sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



I. 

A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlets, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold, 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 
The shadow from the substance, and that one 



A MEDLEY. 225 

SlionM come to fight witn sn^iaotrc a/ia tu f;i^ 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or Lass. 

An old and strange ^^ection of the house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heavens knows ivhat : 

On a sudden in the midst of men and day, 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore, 

I seera'd to move amo^^^• a world of ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane, 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd " catalepsy." 

My mothei pitying made a thousand prayers ; 

My mother was as mild as any saint, 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on her. 

So gracious was her tact and tenderness : 

But .::y good father thought a king a king ; 

He cared not for the aifection of the house ; 

He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 

Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been. 
While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight yeai-s old ; and still from time to time 
Cyme murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture hy my lieart, 
And one dark tress ; an;l all aroujid them botn 
Sv^eet thoughts would sv/ar;.':i as bees about tlieiT quae* 

But when the days drew nigh tliat I should vve<i. 
My father sent ambassadors v/ith furs 
Ind jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these brought bac^ 
4. presant, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an aswer vague as wind : 
Besides, they saw th-e king ; he took the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blanif ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence-room I stood 
With CyrH -xnd with Florian, my two friends : 



226 THE princess: 

Tlie liist, a gentleman of broken means 

(His father's fault) but given to starts and buTBt* 

Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 

And almost my half-self, for still we moved 

Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon. 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would sen{\ a hundred thousand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his :pk-t/i. 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king. 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame. 
May rue the i)argain made." And Florian said : 
" I have d sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know 
Who wedded with a nobleman fi-om thence ; 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this riiatter might be sifted clean.'" 
And Cj'ril whisperd : " Take me with yoy too." 
Then laughing, *' What, if these weird seizures com? 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow fi-ora the trutii ! 
Take me : I '11 bcrve you better in a strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here : " but " No i " 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not * we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies d.'^ad 
In iron gatmtlets : break the council np." 

But when the council broke, I rose and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd he:" likeness out 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying batli«}d 



A MEtoLET. 2-27 

In the green gleam of de (vy-tassell'd trees : 

What ^vere those fancies ? wherefore break her trots? * 

]*roud look'd the lips : but while I meditated 

A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 

And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 

Of the wild woods together; and a Voice 

Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole fr»m court 
With Cyril and with Florian, nnperceived. 
Cat-footed thro' the town, and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs. 
With Ho ! from some bay-window shake the night 
But all was quiet: from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt. 
And ll}'ing reach'd the frontier : then we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness. 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the Imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and small his voic«, 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; 
A little dry old man, without a star. 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came. 
And mj betroth'd. " You do us, Prince," he said, 
Airing a snowy hand and signet-gem, 
"All honor. We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives fail'd. 
I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart. 
With my full heart : but there were ^vidows here, 
Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with ecjual husbandry 
TLs woman were an equal to the man. 
Th3y harp'd on this ; with this our banquets rang; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter held, 
Was all in all : they had but been, she thought. 



228 THE PRINCESS : 

Ar^ cm'icri.L ; tl^'V must lose the child, assiira« 

The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she ^vrote, 

Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 

But all she is and does is avv^ful ; odes 

About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 

And dismal lyrics, prophes}ing change 

Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 

And they that know such things — I sought bu' pe-ay© ; 

No critic I — would call them masterpieces : 

"3 hey master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon, — 

A 3ertain summers-palace which I have 

Hard by your father's frontier : I said no. 

Yet being an easy man, gave it : and there, 

All wild to found an University 

For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 

We know not, — only this : they see no men, 

Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 

Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her 

As on a kind of paragon ; and I 

(Pardon me saying it) were much loath to breed 

Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but since 

(And I confess with right) you think me bound 

In some sort, I can give you letters to^ her ; 

And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance 

Almost at naked nothing." 

Tlius the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rcxh 
ISIany a long league back to the North. At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of hope, 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve, 
Close at the boundary of die' liberties ; 
There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then exclaim'd, 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said 



A MEDLEY. 229 

** Had oiven ixs letters, was he boimd to speak ? 
The king would bear him out " ; and at the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard her speak ; 
She scared him ; hfe ! he never saw the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid Avere the boys : 
The land, henmderstood, for miles about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine v/ere sows, 
And all the dogs" — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented Maid, 
Or Npnph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled ; him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, 
^^nd boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode. 
And rode till midnight, when the college-lights 
Began to ghtter firefly-like in copse 
And hnden alley : then we past an arch, 
T\Tiereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the stars; 
And some inscription ran along the front. 
But deep in shadow : further on we gain'd 
A little street, half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak f:r noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers foiling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bu£t of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven and K^artb 



230 THE PRINCESS : 

W/ith constellation and with continent, 

Above an entry : riding in, we call'd ; 

A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable-wenca 

Came running at the call, and help'd us dowzi. 

Then stcpt a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd, 

Full-blown, before us Into rooms which gave 

Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 

In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 

And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," she said, 

"And Lady Psyche." " Which was prettiest, 

Best-natured ? " " Lady Psyche." " Hers are we. 

One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and wrote, 

In such a hand as when a field of corn 

Bows all its ears before the roaring East ; 

" Thrfee ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with yoiu' owa. 
As Lady Pysche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 
And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
^nd then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. . 



As thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pluck' d the ripen' d ears, 
We fell out, ray wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
:' And blessings on the falling out 

That all the moi'e endears, 
When we fall put with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! . 
For when we came where lids the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with teap. 



A MEDLEY. 



II. 



231 



At brtiak of day tlie College Portress came : 

Slie brought us Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken hood to each. 

And zoned with gold ; and now when these were osi. 

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 

She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 

Tlie Princess Ida waited : out w-e paced, 

I first, and following thro' the porch that sang 

All round with laurel, issued in a court 

Compact with lucid marbles, boss'd with lengths 

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. 

The Muses and the Graces, gToup'd in threes, 

Enring'd a billowing fountain in the midst ; 

And here and there on lattice edges lay 

Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 

And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat, 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside her throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female form, 
The Princess ; liker to the inhai^itant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sim, 
Than our man's earth ; such eves ^x^ve in her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing down 
From over her arch'd brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands, 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

" We give you welcome : not without redound 
Of use a?id glory to yourself ye cotne, 
The first-fi'uits of the stranger : aftertime. 
And that fall voice which circles round the grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What ! are the ladies of your land so tall ? " 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From the court," 
She answer'd, " then ye know the Prince? " and he : 
" The climax of his age ! as tho' there were 
Oiie rose in all the world, your Highness that, 
He Avorships your ideal " : she replied : 
" We scarcely thought in om* own hall to hear 
This barren verbiage, current a.mong men, 
Lig'uL coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 



232 THE PRINCESS : 

Your flight fi^om out your bookless wilds would teeia 
As arguing love of knowledge and of ])0wer ; 
iTour language proves you still the child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him: when we set our hind 
To this great work, we purposed with ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well, 
liaiies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, 
Some futui-e time, if so indeed you will. 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale." 

At those high words, we conscious of ourselves, 
Perused the matting; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three yeare to correspond with home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties ; 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed, 
We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our hall 
Our statues ! — not of those that men desire. 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but she 
That taught the S'lbiiie liow to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 
Con\-ention, since to look on noble Ibrois 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures up : 
Embrace our aims : work out your freedom. Giria, 
Knowdedge is now no more a fountain seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave. 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you may go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing wavgti 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 



A MEDLEY. 233 

To Lady Psyclie's : as we enter'd in, 
Tlicre sat along tlie forms, lilce moniirifTj df.yes 
That sun tlielr milky bosoms on the thatch^^ 
A patient ranr^re of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, ialcon-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so .she look'd. 
Of twenty summers. At her leil, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Agla'ia slept. We sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame 
That whisper'd "Asses' ears " among the sedge, 
" My sister." •' Comely too by all that 's fair," 
Said Cyril. " hush, hush ! " and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light. 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 
Aad eddied into suns, that wheehng cast 
The planets : then the monster, then the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mat« ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of aU the ungracious past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in each, 
How far from ju;3t ; till warming with her theme 
She fldmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to chivalry : 
Wlien some lespect, however slight, was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed. 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; they must bail^- 



234 THE PRINCESS .' 

Hfro miglit tbcy learn whatever men were tauf]!;hl5 
Let tliem not fear : some said their heads were loss 
Some men's were small ; not they the least of men 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides, the brain was like the hand, and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field : some ages had been lost ; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet ^ince in truth 
The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of government 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace- 
Sappho and others vied with any man : 
And, last not least, she who had left her place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that they might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy, 
Dilating on the fiiture ; " everywhere 
Tvro heads in council, two beside the hearth. 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the worM/ 

Sh • ended here, and beckon'd us : the rest 
Parte i ; and, glowing full-laced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried, 
'' My brother ! " " Well, my sister." " Oh," she said, 
" What do you here ? and in this dress ? and these '? 



A MEDLEY. 235 

Why who are these ? a wolf within the ibkl I 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to me 1 
A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! " 
" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. " Wretched bo^ 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate, 
Let no man enter in on pain of death ? " 
"And if 1 had," he answer'd, " who could think 
The softer Adams of yoiu- Academe, 

sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 

As chanted on the blanching bones of men ? " 

" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 

" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! my vow 

Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 

That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 

The Princess." " Well then. Psyche, take my life, 

And nail me like a weasel on a grange 

For warning : bury me beside the gate, 

And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 

Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 

All for tlie common good of loomankind" 

" Let me die too," said Cyril, " having seen 

And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
"Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was, 
And thus (what other way was left ?) I came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I was, 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breath i 
Within this vestal limit ; and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it, f-lls." 
" Yet pause," I said : " for that inscnj^tion there 

1 think no more of deadly lurks therein. 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 

To scare the fowl from fruit : if more there be, 

If more and acted on, what follows ? war ; 

Your own work marr'd : for this yom' Academe, 

^TTiichever sidi) be victor, in the halloo 

Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 

With all fair theories only made to gild 

A storml^s summer." " Let the Princess judge 



236 



THE PRINCESS : 



Of tK;it," she said : "farewell Sir — and to yo?j 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

"Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoin'd, 
" The fiiK- m line fi-om that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled ? We point to it, and we saj, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not^cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred veins.'' 
"Are you that Psyche," Florian added, " she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, 
And snared the sqiurrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow, 
To smooth my pillow, mix the fbajning draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you now?" 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem, — 
Woman, — if I might sit beside your feet, 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
"Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn, before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
Tn want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them : look ! for such are these and T." 
"Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, " to whom, 
Li gentler days, your arrow-w^ounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and the bloo-i 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and yon wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept 
O by the bright head of my little niece, 
You w ere that Pyyche, and wha* are you no^y ? " 



A MEDLKY. '^ 

" Yon are that Ps}',5lie," CyrW said ajrain, 
" The mother of the sweetest little maid, 
Tliat ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 
Sbe answer'd, *' Peace .' and why should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great : he for the common weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need were, 
Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved fi-om right to save 
A prince, a brother ? a little wiU I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear 
My conscience will not count me lleckless ; yet — 
Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 
You perish) as you came, to slip away, 
To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said, 
These women were too barbarous, would not leani ; 
They fled, who might have shamed us : promise, all" 

AVhat could we else, we promised each ; and she^ 
Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced 
A to and fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling, faintly said . 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you have gro^vn 
Y''ou scarce have alter d : I am sad and glad 
To pee you, Florian. / give thee to death, 
Mv brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well ? " 

With that she kis^'d 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them biossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, 
And fai- allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began, to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a message here fi-om Lady Blanche * 



2<]8 THE princess: 

Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, — 
• A rosy blonde, and in a college-gown, 
That clad her like an April dafibdilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 



So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, "Ah — Melissa — you ! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, " pardon me I 
I heard, I could not help ity did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray iyoit fear me not. 
Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous temperament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 
The Danakl of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My houor, these their lives." "Ah, fear me not,*" 
Replied Melissa, " no — I would not tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in peace, 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in hails 
Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 
(Tho' Madam you should ansv/er, we would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you came 
Among us, debtors lor our lives to you. 
Myself for something more." He said not what, 
But " Thanks," she answer'd, " go : we have been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the facfc; , 
They do So that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well ** 



A MEDLEY. 239 

We tum'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his waist, 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trumpeter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stFo!i*d 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture-slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : follow'd then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five words long, 
That on the stretch 'd forefinger of all Tim© 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 
llie morals, something of the frame, the rock, 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke • 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
" They hunt old trails," said Cyril, " very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent ? " 
" Ungracious 1 " answer'd Florian, " have you leanii 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost sad ? " 
" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made me wise ? 
And ^ftamt ? I learnt more from her in a flash. 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull. 
And every Muse tangled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, 
And round these halls a thousand baby-loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts. 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; but 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all ihe golden-sh ailed fiirn, 



240 THE PRINCESS : 

Tlie ijng-limb'd la<.l tliat had a Psyche too; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and now 
What tliink you of It, Florian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it hold ? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me, 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? Is she 
The sweet proprietress, a shadow ? If not. 
Shall those three castles patch my tattcr'd coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants. 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, 
And two dear things are one of double worth, 
And much I miglit have said, but that my zone 
Unmann'd me . then the Doctors ! O to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing ! once or t^vice I thought to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : but thou 
Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make hquid treble of that bassoon, my throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and looe? 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek. 
Where they like swallows commg out of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark the beil 
For dinner, let us go 1 " 

And in we streara'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd Hke a bed of flowers. 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine o-^na 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams. 
The second-sight of some AiJtraian age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mlxt with inmost terras 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, 



A MET>LEY. 



241 



Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peiicock down with that: 
Some to a low song oaxM a shallop by, 
Or under orchos of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some hid and sougbi 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
"With laughter : others lay about the lawns. 
Of the older sort, and muumur'd that their Mav 
Was passing : what was learning unto them ? 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not :| then day droopt; the chapel-bsll 
Call'd us: we left the walks; we mixt with thos« 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 
While the great organ almest burst his pipes. 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of.^solemn psalmsj and silver litanies, 
TheworF"6F Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, 8we«t and l&Vf 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the d}ing moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me; \ 
While my little one, while ray pretty one, sleeps. 
16 



242 THE PRINCESS : 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Father will come to his habe in the nest, 

Silver sails all ont of the west 
Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, mj"- pretty one, sleep. 



III. 

f Morn \n the white wake of the morning star ) 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the courts that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

Thor*^. while we stood beside the fount, and wateli'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, "O fly, while yet you may! 
My mother knows : " and when I ask'd her " how," 
" My fault," she wept, " my fault ! and yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 't is her wont from night to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all the love. 
And so last night she fp-U to canvass you : 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy her. 
' ^\^lo ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls ? — more like men ! ' and at these words the snaKtv 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast ; 



A MEDLEY. 



243 



And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my chock 

Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 

To fix and make me hotter, till she laugli'd : 

' O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had been men 

You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus 

For wholesale comment,' Pardon, I am shamed 

lliat I must needs repeat for my excuse 

W'hat looks so little graceful : ' men ' (for still 

My mother went revolving on the word) 

'And so they are, — - very like men indeed — 

And with that woman closeted for hours ! ' 

Then came these dreadful words out one by one. 

' Why — these — are — men : ' I shuddei-'d : * antl you 

know it.' 
' O ask me nothing,' I said : ' And she knows too, 
And she conceals it.' So my mother clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
Tlie Princess : Lady Psyche will be crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly : 
But heal me with yoiu* pardon ere you go." 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush ? " 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than wcot 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second mom.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther fudough : " and he went. 

IMelissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Florian ask'd 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right and ^eft." 
" long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Di\'ision smoulders hidden ; 't is my mother, 
Too jealous, often 'iretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice :^' much I bear with her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And still she raii'd against the state of things. 



244 THE PRINCESS : 

She had the ctrc of Lady Ida's youth, 

And fi'om the Queen's decease she brought htr up= 

But when your sister came slie won the heart 

Of Ida : they were still together, grew 

(For so tliey said themselves) inosculated ; , 

Consonant chords that shiver to one note ; 

One mind in all things : yet my mother still 

Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 

And angled with them for her pupil's love : 

She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 

But I must go : I dare not tarry : " and light, 

As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 



Then murraur'd Fiorian, gazing after her, 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how prettv 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring priile. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 



" Tlie crane," I said, " may chatter of the crane 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I, 
An eagle, clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 
But in her own grand way : being herself 
Tliree times jnore noble than three score of men. 
She sees herself in Qy^ry woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she moveg 
The Saniian Here rises and she speaks 
A. Memnon smitten with the morning Sun." 



S.: saying, from the court we paced, and gain'd 
"The terrace ranged along the Northern front. 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gak 
That blown about the fbi4age underneath. 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 



Pastorals (Tlieocritus IX) 

^eai' is cicala to cicala, dear 

Ve ant to ant, and liav/k to liawk, bat 1 

< Icl only deal' to me the Muse and Son^. ' 



A MEDLEY. 245 

B isit balm upon jour eyelids. Hither came 

Cj-ril, and yawning, " O hard task," he cried ; 

" No figliting suadows here ! I fox'ced a way 

Thro' soild opposition crab];' 1 and gnarl'd. 

Better to clear prime forv:3t5, heave and thump 

A league of street in summer solstice down, 

Than hanmier at this reverend gentlewoman. 

I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found her there 

At poll t to move, and settled in her eyes 

The gvien malignant liglit of coming storm. 

Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oird. 

As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek I pray'd 

Conceahnent : she demanded who we were, 

And why we came ? I fabled nothing fair, 

But, your example pilot, told her all. 

Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye. 

But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 

She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 

I m-ged the fierce inscription on the gate, 

And our three lives. True — we had limed ourselves 

With open eyes, and we ranst take the chance. 

But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 

The woman's cause. ' Not more than now,' she said, 

' So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 

I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 

Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 

Her answer was, ' Leave me to deal with that.* 

I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 

And she replied, her duty was to speak, 

And duty duty, clear of consequences. 

I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I knew 

No rock so hard but that a little wave 

May beat admission in a thousand years, 

I recommenced ; ' Decide not ere you pause. 

I find you here but in the second place. 

Some say the third — the authentic foundress you. 

I offer boldly : we will seat you highest : 

Winir at our advent : help my prince to gain 

His rightful bride, and here I promise you 

Some palace in our land, where you shall reigi? 

The head and heart of all our fair she-world, 

And your great name flow on with broaden .ng time 

Forever.' Well, she balanced this a little, 

And told me she would answer us to-day, 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more I gained." 



246 THE PRESXESS; 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her ? we should find the land 
y/orth seeing; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder : " then she pointed on to where ' 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens, empty ma»ks. 
And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with aw 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, ani so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
*' O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her," 
I answer'd, " but to one of whom we spake 
Yom' Highness might have seem'd the thing you sa^ ' 
"Again ? " she cried, " are you ambassadresses 
From him to me ? we give you, being strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could have wish'd - 
" Our king expects — was there no precontract ? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 



A MEDLEY. 



217 



Tlie bird of passage fi}'ing south but long'd 
To tbllow : surely, if your Highness keep 
"Your purport, you will shock hmi ev'n to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not read — no books 7 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise ? 
To nurse a bhnd ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it. 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile, 
"And as to precon'racts, we move, my friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti! Sunamon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the pahns." * 

"Alas your Highness breathes full East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man 1 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your pai.us 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice . 
Resniooth to nothing : might I dread that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds 
For issue, yet may Kve in vain, and miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due. 
Love, children, happiness ? " 

And she exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd to thus : 
Yet wdl wc say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere! we like them well: 



248 THE princess: 

But cliildren die ; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die : 
Tliey with tlie sun and moon renew their light 
Forever, blcsshig those thai look on them. : 
Chihircn — that men may pluck them from ojir hearte, 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 

— children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 

And sees him err : nor would we work for fame , 

Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Great, 

Who learns the one pou sto whence after-hands 

May move the world, tho' she herself effect 

But li jtle ; wherefore up and act, nor sln^ink 

For fear our solid aim be dissipated 

By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, 

In lieu of many mortal Hies, a race 

Of giants living, each, a thousand yeai-s, 

Tliat we might see our own work out, and watch 

The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Foet-princess with her grand 
Imaginattions might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, 
Or' down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties.'* 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 

1 o plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the woods. 
And danced the color, and, below, stuc'k out 

The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'cl 



A MEDLEY. 249 

Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 

"As these rude bones to us, are we to her 

That will be." " Dare we dream of that," I askM, 

" Which wrought us, as the workman and his work. 

That practice betters?" '• How," she cried, " you love 

The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 

A golden broach : beneath an emerald plane 

Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 

Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; 

She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 

For there are schools for all." "And yet," I said, 

'■ Metliinks I have not found among them all 

One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 

She answered, " but it pleased us not : in trutli 

We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 

Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, 

And cram him with the fragments of the grave. 

Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 

And holy secrets of this microcosm. 

Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, 

En carnalize their spirits : yet we know 

Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs, 

Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 

Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, 

For many weary moons before we came. 

This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself 

Would tend upon you. To your question now, 

Which touches on the workman and his work. 

Let there be iigiit and there was light : 't is so : 

For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 

And all creation is one act at once, 

The birth of light : but we that are not all. 

As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that. 

And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make 

One act a phantom of succession : thus 

Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow. Time : 

But in the shadow will we work, and mould 

The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. " how sweet," I said, 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask) 
" To linger here with one that loved us." " Yea," 
She answered, "or with fair philosophies 



250 THE PRINCE 88 : 

That lift the- fancy; for Indeed these fiekls 

Are lovely," lovelier not the Elysian lawns, 

Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 

The soft white vapor streak tJie crowned towers 

Built to the Sun : " then, turning to her maidn, 

" Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward ; 

Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 

A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 

With fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood, 

Engii't with many a florid maiden-cheek, 

The woman-conqueror ; woman-conquer'd there 

The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns, 

And all the men mourn'd at his side : but we 

Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril kept 

With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 

With mine affianced. Many a little liand 

G Lanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 

Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 

In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, we wound 

About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 

Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names 

Of sliale and hornblende, rag and trap and tutf, 

Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 

Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all 

The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle-walls 

And snoA\r\' summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glor}^ 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes iiying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, djing, dying 

O hark, hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blo^^, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dyiujij. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow^ set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



A MEDJEY. 20l 



IV. 



" Th ere sinks the nebulous star we call the Tun^ 
If that bvpotliesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest ; " and we 
Dcwn from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
tBy every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, - 
l)ropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
StiiTing a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin doiue and enter'd in. 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : lightlicr move 
The minutes fledged with, music " ; and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 

/ " Teal's, idle tears, I know not what they mean, | 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

' " Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
Ro sad, so fi-esh, the days that are no more. J 

''Ah, sad and. strange as In -lark summer dS'WQS 
' Tbe.-,.eai.'4i.2st pipe of baL^-awakcn'd birds 
To dyingears, when unto djnng eyes 
The casement slowly grows a gli mmcring square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that arc no more. ^ 



252 

r 



THE PRINCES? ' 



Dear as remember'd kisses after deatli, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy fei^rn'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
Death in Life, the days that are no more." ■ 

S'liP ended with such passion that the tear, ' 
She sang of^ shook and fell, an ei-ring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, " If indeed there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old b}'gones be. 
While down the streams that float us each and ail 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to me ; 
" Know you no song of your own land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect. 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Tlien I rememberM one myself had made, 
TV'hat time I watch'd the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 



TiiG Serenade (Theocritus 111 

"Would tjiat I 
lUiTiniing bee to pass witliin tliy cav 
[ding the ivy and the feather-fern 
iich thou'rt hidden." 



Cyclops ( Theocritus , XI ) 

lat I had he en born a thing with f: 
nik anear thee, and to kiss thy hai 
iou deniedst thy mouth, — and now t( 
) lilies to thee and the red-leavec 
nidi&r poppies. " 



GRAND OPERA HOUSE 

WEEK GOMMENCING MONDAY, JAN. 13, 

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A MEDLEY. 



253 



" O tell her, Swallow, tlion tlint knowcst cncli, 
Tliat bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and ligb! 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were T thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. 
I>3lay!ng as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 

" tell her, S^vallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, br j.gns JifeJkrt^lOTeJs 
And brief the sun of summer In the North, 
'jid brief *1^ moon of beauty In the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, a»id pipe and woo her, and make her mina 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 



I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old tim.e, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips. 
And knew not what they meant ; for still my voice 
Rang fake : but smiling, " Not for thee," she said, 
"*' O Bulbul, any rose of Guiistan 
Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass j^and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are mes 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness. 
And dress the victim to the offering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradi&e, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 



r: 



254 T[1F, IMUXOEHS: 

Poor soul 1 T had a maid of honor once ; 
fShe wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades.' 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse ! But great is song 
Used to great ends : ourself have often tried ^ 
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd 
The passion of the prophetess ; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit than to junketing and love. 
Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, 
Not vassals to he beat, nor petty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough I 
But now to leaven play with profit, you. 
Know you no song, the true growth of your soli, 
That gives the manners of your countrywomen ? " 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head with eyts 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then wliile I dragg'd my brains for such a song, 
C}Til, with whom the bell-mouth'd glass had wrought, 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning. Psyche flush'd and wann'd and shook ; 
The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " Forbear,- Sir," I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started up ; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamor'd, " Flee the death ; " " To horse," 
Said Ida; "home ! to horse!" and fled, as fliea 
A troop of snowy doves athwart tlie duslc, 
When some one Batters at the dovecote-doors ; 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I haird them passing from me : hoof by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge; and then another shriek, 
" The Head, the Head, the Princess, the Head " i 



^ iUh.OLEY, 255 

For hlind witli rage she miss'd the plank, and roll'd 

In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom : 

There whu'l'd her white robe like a blossom'd branch 

Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave, 

No more ; but woman-vested as I was 

Plunged ; and the flood drew ; yet I caught her ; then 

Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 

The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 

Strove to buffet to land in vain. A^jtree 

Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop'd 

To drench his darlv locks in the gurgling Avave 

Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and cauglit, 

And grasping down the boughs I gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew 
My burden fi'om mine arms ; they cried, " she lives - " 
They bore her back into the tent : but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes. 
Nor found my friends; but push'd alone on foot 
(For since her horse v.'as lost I left her m.ine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct b.iveward, found at length 
The garden-portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of en^.blem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns. 
Thro' which I clamber'd o er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden-walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to ^u^ 
^2ZJL"?li"S' °^ ^-^^ glowwonn, now the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns, 

A step 
Of lightest e(;ho, then a loftier form 
Than female, movinj^ thro' the uncertain gloom, 
DIsturb'd me with the doubt " if this were she,*" 
But it was Florian. " Hist, O Hist," he said, 
They seek us : out so late is out of rules. 



256 THE ruTNCKSs : 

Moref)vor * poize ihe Ptrann^ers ' is the. cry. 

How came you here ? " I told him : " I," sa.d he, 

" Last of the train, a moral leaper, I, 

To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, return'd. 

Arriving all confused among the rest 

With hooded brows I crept into the hall, 

And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath ' 

The head of Holoferues peep'd and saw. 

Girl after girl was call'd to trial ; each 

Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of all, 

[Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 

She, question'd if she knew us men, at first 

AVas silent; closer prest, denied it not: 

And then, demanded if her mother knew, 

Dr Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied : 

From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 

Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 

For Psyche, but she was not there ; she call'd 

For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors ; 

Slie sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face ; 

And I slipt out : but whither will you now ? 

And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are fled : 

What, if together ? that were not so well. 

Would rather we had never come ! I dread 

His wildness, and the chances of the dark." 

"And yet," I said, " you wrong him more than I 
That struck him: this is proper to the clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he.'* 

Scarce had I ceased when fi^om a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, " Names : " 
He, standing still, was clutch'd ; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and rac<'i 



A MEPLEY. 257 

By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose In flakes ; behinl 
I heard the puff'd pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laugliter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she sat 
High iu the hall : above her droop'd a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head. 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Pamp from the river , and close behind her stood 
Flight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, 
Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and raio, 
And labor.^ Each was like a Druid rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne : and there beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, In old days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me, 
Your second mother : those were gracious times. 
Then came your new friend : you began to change — 
I saw It and grieved — to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoj.ed to win you back. 



2«'^8 THE PRINCESS : 

And partly conscious of my own deserts, 

And partly that you were my civil head, 

And chiefly you were born for something great, 

In which I might your fellow-worker be, 

^Yhen time should serve ; and thus a noble schemt 

Grew up from seed we two long since had sowp ; 

In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd, 

Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 

We took this palace ; but even from the first 

You stood in your own light and darken'd mine. 

What student came but that you planed her path 

To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 

A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 

I your old friend and tried, she new in all ? 

But still her lists were swell'd and mine were lean ; 

Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 

Then came these wolves: tliey knew her: tliey enduic<! 

Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 

To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 

And me none told : not less to an eye like mine, 

A lidless watcher of the public weal, 

Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 

Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 

To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of it 

From Lady Psyche : * you had gone to her. 

She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 

No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd among us 

In oiu" young nursery still unknown, the stem 

Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 

Were all miscounted as malignant haste 

To push my rival out of place and power. 

But public use required she should be known ; 

And since my oath was ta'en for pubhc xise, 

I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 

I spoke not then at first, but watch'd them well, 

Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 

And yet this day (tho' you should hate me for it) 

I came to tell you ; found that you had gone, 

Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, I thought. 

That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 

Did she ? These monstei-s blazon'd what they w*^,r« 

According to the coarseness of their kind. 

For thus I hear ; and known at last (my work) 

And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 

T grant in her some sense of shame, she flies ; 



A MEDLEY. 259 

And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up youi-s, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, 
And talents, I — you know it — I will not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread." 

Shr jeased : the Princess answer'd coldly, " Gocd 
Your oath is broken : . we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to ourseJf." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
" Tlie plan was mine. I built the nest," she said, 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! " and stoop'd to u]>drag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Fieri an's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, a/id wing'^J 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell, 
Delivering seal'd despatches, which the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the ri "k 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavoiis ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now her breast. 
Beaten with some great passion at her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush, the papers that she held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 



2 GO THE PRINCESS : 

TTie plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she crush'd 
I'he scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 
She whirM them on to me, as who should say, 
" Read," and I read — two letters — one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your waj 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

Tlie second was my father's, running thi^s : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of Lis head • 
Render him up unscathed : give him your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
AVould make all women kick against their Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
Fiiit led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than youi's : my nurse would tell me of ycu 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon. 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights. 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
llie leader wU.dswan in among the stars 



A MEDLEY. 



261 



Would clang It, and lapt in wreaths of glow-worm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had you been 
Sphered uj) with (Cassiopeia, or tlie enthroned 
Pei'sephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all wern out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Xot in this fi-equence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
Oil you, their centre : let me say but this. 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 

The dwarts of presage : tho' when known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, fi-om hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you more 
Than grooving boys their manhood ; dying lips, 
With many thousand mattei^ left to do, 

The breath of life ; O more than poor men wealth, 

Than sick men health — yom-s, yours, not mine — but udl? 

Without you ; with you, whole ; and of those halves 

You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse despair. 

But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 

To follow up the worthiest till he die : 

Yet that I came not all unauthorized 

Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave It, which she caught, and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her lips. 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to bm-st and flood the world with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather'd together: from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shouldei-s, thick as herded ewes. 



2C2 THE PRINCESS : 

And rainbow robes, and gems and geniHke eyes, 
And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale.. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 
Some crjdng there was an army in the land, 
And some that men were in the very walls, ' 
And some they cared not ; till a clamor grew 
A? of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded : high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her arms and call d 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

" What fear ye brawlers ? am not I your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : / dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us and they come 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls. 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for fear ; 
Six thousand years of fear have made you that 
. From which I would redeem you : but for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismissed in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
Tlie drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their heeis. 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scorn-, 
Forever slaves at home and fools abroad." 



A MEDi.EY. 263 

She, ending, A^aved her hands: thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliif, 
"VV^hen all the glens are drown'd in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us, and said : 

" You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's dress : 
Well have you done and hke a gentleman. 
You saved our life : we owe you bitter thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you both ? — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 

You that have dared to break our bound, and gull'd 
Om- servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us — 

1 wed with thee ! / bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' ail the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to make your crowsj. 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself ar.e hateful to us : 

I trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we wiU not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt ; 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman-g-uard. 
The jest and earnest working side by side. 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 



?64 THE PRINCESS : 

Wbie shadows ; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spmts 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sup 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That heat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



So Lilia sang : we thought her half-possess'd. 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the words ; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your coloi* : if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me r ' 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight," she said, 
"And make us all we would be, great and gofttl.'* 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumtid the Prince. 



A MEDLEY, 2G5 



V. 

Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And " Stand, who goes ? " " Two from the palace," 1 
" The second two : they wait," he said, " pass on ; 
His Highness wakes : " and one, that clash'd in arme, 
' By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
I rom blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear, 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains fiash'd their glittering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew, 
And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears. 
Panted from weary sides, " King, you are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our son, 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou. 
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge : " 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heeL 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him, " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! (thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespas-chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden scale 
Of himcss, issued in the sun, that now 



266 THE PxvINCESS : 

Leapt fi'om the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met u», 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given . 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away ' 

Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping : " then we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A ffione-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pititiil sight, wrapped in a soldier's cloak, 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot. 
And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florlan knelt, and " Come,'* he whispered to her 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, 
'When fali'n in darker ways." And likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me ? " She heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-^shrouded over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none for me ! '* 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your child ! '* 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 

"Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more 1 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And e'.ther she will die from want of care, 



A MEDLEY. 



267 



Or sicken wdtli ill-asage, when they say 

TLc child is hers — for every little foult, 

The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl 

Remembering her mother : O my flower ! 

Or they will take her, they ^vill make her hard, 

And she will pass me by in after-life 

With some cold reverence worse than were she dea<i 

111 mother that I was to leave her there, 

To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 

The horror of the shame among them all : 

But I will go and sit beside the doors, 

And make a wild petition night and day, 

Until they hate to hear me like a wind 

Wailing forever, till they open to me, 

And lay my little blossom at my feet, 

My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one child : 

And I will take her up and go my way, 

And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 

Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me, 

Who gave me back my child ? " " Be comforted," 

Said Cyril, " you shall have it : " but again 

She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so 

Like tender things that being caught feign death, 

Spoke not, nor stuT'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and, " Look, you," cri-^c/ 
My father, " that our compact be fulfiU'd : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say that stili 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large : 
How say you, war or not ? " 

" Not war, if possible, 
O king." I said, " lest from the abuse of war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 



26S THE princess; 

TLree times a monster : now she lightens scorn 

At him that mars her plan, but then would hate 

(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, 

And every face she look'd on justify it) 

The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 

By gentleness than war. I want her lo\'e. 

What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 

Yom' cities into shards with catapults, 

She would not love ; — or brought her chain'd, a sia^ © 

The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 

Not ever would she love ; but brooding turn 

The book of scorn, till all my little chance 

Were caught within the record of her wrongs. 

And crush'd to death : and rather, Sire, than thia 

I would the old God of war himself were dead. 

Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 

Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, 

Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice. 

Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I ahnost think 
That idiot-legend credible. Look you. Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
The sleek and shining creatiu'es of the chase. 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score, 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry-net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier ? No 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she rose 



A MEDLEY. 269 

The yesternight, and storming in extremes 

Stood for her cause, anrl flung defiance down 

Gagclike to man, and had not shunn'd the death, 

No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, king, 

Tnie woman : but you clash them all in one, 

That have as many differences as we. 

The violet varies from the lily as far 

As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 

The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 

And some unwortliily ; their sinless faith, 

A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 

Glorif}-ing clown and satyr ; whence they need 

More breadth of culture : is not Ida right ? 

They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 

Severer in the logic of a life ? 

Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 

Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom you sprdX 

My mother, looks as whole as some serene 

Creation minted in the golden moods 

Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a touch. 

But piu-e as Hnes of green that streak the white 

Of the fii-st snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say, 

Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 

Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire, 

But whole and one : and take them all-in-all, 

"Were we ourselves but half as good, fjs kind, 

As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 

Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 

As dues of Nature. To om- point : not war : 

Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense 
Said Gama. " AYe remember love om-self 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had om- daughter : for the rest. 
Our own detention, why, the causes Aveigh'd, 
Fatherly fears — you used us coiui:eously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for yom- ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
You did but come as goblins in the night. 



270 THE riiiNCEss : 

Nor In the furrow broke the ploughman's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milklng-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice , 
As ours with Ida : sometliing may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant sHpt the heavy dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers 
With clamor; for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a halt ; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their arms ; the drum 
Beat ; merrily blowing shrill'd the martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone, 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, as they cam*' 



A MEDLEY. 271 

And T that prated peace, when fii-st I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the king 
His three broad sons ; with now a wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he himaelf 
Your captive, yet my father wills not war : 
And, 'sdeath 1 myself, what care I, war or no ? 
But then this question of your troth remains : 
And there 's a downright honest meaning in her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high 1 and yet 
She ask'd but space and fair play for her scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me — I myself. 
What know I of these things ? but, life and soul 1 
I thought her half right talking of her wrongs ; 
1 say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of that ? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong. 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : thi& is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me swear it — 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by candle-light — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive your claim 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
rXjcides it ; 'sdeath ! against my father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer, loath to render up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless war 
Tc cleave the rift of difierence deeper yet ; 
TiU one of^ those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat, " Like to hke ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's heart." 
A taunt that ciench'd his purpose like a blow ) 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoff, 



2T2 1 HE PRINCESS : 

And sharp I answer'*!, touch'd upon the point 
"VVliere idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here : why not ? we are three to three.** 

Then spake the third, " But three to three ? no nioie r 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause ? ^ 

More, more, for honor : every captain waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
]M(jre, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick! by overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 

" Yea," answer'd I, " for this wild wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath ! but we will send to lier," 
Said Arac, ' worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the word.'* 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but vainlier than a \a" 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for none 
Regarded; neither seem'd there more to say: 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates. 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life -^ three times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : the next. 
An awful voice within had warn'd him thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his hair. 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild: not less one glance he caugh* 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills rol' 



A ME1>LEY. 273 

The torrents, dash'd to tlie vale: and yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce 
lie yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat. 
And sware to combat for my claim tiU death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble stairs, 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with Tomj-ris 
And what she did to C}rrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, 
And aU that morn the heralds to and fro, 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand. 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
IMade for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men : the old leaven leaven'd aU : 
Slillions of throats woidd bawl for civil rights, 
No woman named : therefore I set my face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine own- 
Far off firom men I built a Ibid for them ; 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
-18 



274 THE princess: 

I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey, 

And prosper'd; till a rout of saucy bo}'S 

Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, 

Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know not what 

Of insolence and love,/ some pretext held ^ 

Of baby-troth, invalid, since my will 

Seal'd not the bond — the striplings ! — for their sport 1 - 

I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these '? 

Or you ? or I ? for since you think me touch'd 

In honor — what ? I would not aught of false — - 

Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know 

Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 

You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 

What end soever : fail you will not. Still 

Take not his life : he risk'd it for my own ; 

His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you do, 

Fight and fight well ; strike and strike home. O dext 

Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 

The sole men to be mingled with our cause, 

The sole men we shall prize in the after-time, 

Your very armor hallow'd, and your statues 

Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly brush'd aside. 

We plant a solid foot into the Time, 

And mould a generation strong to move 

With claim on claim from right to right, till she 

Whose name is yoked with children's, know iierielf ; 

And Knowledge in our own land make her free, 

And, ever following those two crowned twins. 

Commerce and Conquest, shower the fiery grain 

Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 

Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postscript dash'd across the rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since oui arms fail'd — this Egypt-plague of men .' 
Almost our maids were better at their homes. 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour In mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan-hands 



A MEDLEY. 275 

Fell at my heart, and seem'd to charm from tlience 
The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell.'* 

I ceased ; he said : " Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms, 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' jourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling king, 
This Gama, swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman takes It up; 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle she : 
Man with the head and woman with the heart : > 

Man to command and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she 's yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street. 
They say she 's comely ; there 's the fairer chanc*» 
/ like her none the less for rating at her I 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of fame. A histy brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a cliild 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for It was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause, •' Take not his life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt win ; " 
J thought on all the wrathfiil king had said. 
And how the strange betrothment was to end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's cui^e 
That one should fight with shadows and should fall 
And like a flash the weird afiection came : 
King, camp, and college turn'd to hollow shows ; 
\ seem'd to move in old memorial tills. 



276 THE princess: 

jlnd doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 

To dream myself the shadow of a dream : 

And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 

The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed 

We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 

Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared - 

At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 

Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 

The trumpet, and again ; at which the storm 

Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 

And riders front to front, until they closed 

In conflict with the crash of shivering points, 

And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, I dreara'd 

Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed, 

And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 

And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 

Part sat like rocks : part reel'd but kept their seats : 

Part roll'd on the earth and rose again and drew : 

Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down 

From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 

From Arac's arm, as fi-om a giant's flail, 

The large blows rain'd, as here and everywhere 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists. 

And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, and shield 

Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 

With hammers ; till I thought, can this be he 

From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this be so. 

The mother makes us most — and in my di-eam 

I glanced aside, and saw the palace-fi'ont 

Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes, 

And highest, among the statues, statuelike, 

Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 

With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 

A single band of gold about her hair, 

Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but she 

No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 

Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight, 

Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 

Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 

And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 

All that I would. But that large-moulded man, 

His visage all agrin as at a wake, 

^lade at me thro' the press, and, staggering back 

With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came 

As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 



A MEDLEY. 277 

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 

And shadowing down the chanipaln till it strikes 

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and spilth, 

And twists the grain Avith such a roar that Earth 

Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everything 

Gave way before hini : only Florian, he 

That loved me closer than his own right eye, 

Thrust in between ; but Ai'ac rode him down ; 

And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince, 

With Psyche's color round liis helmet, tough, 

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 

But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 

And threw him : last I spm-r'd ; I felt my veins 

Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand, 

And sword to sword, and horse to hoi-se we hung 

Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced ; 

I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth 

Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; and I fell- 



Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd crj': 

All her maidens, watehmg, said, 
*' She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Caird him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears— 
" Sweet my child, I hve for thee." 



VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me ali 
So often that I speak as having seen. 



278 THE riiiNCESs : 

For so it seera'd, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange 
That when our side was vanquish'd and my cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and rsn 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque ^ 
A.nd grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang : 



*' Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the seed , 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came ; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. 

" Om- enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree 1 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth. 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor. 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms. 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder-blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; and roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 



A MEDLEY. 279 

"And no^»-, O maids, behold our sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, 
When dames and heroines of the golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and profler these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe }'et in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they cam , 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by them went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but Blanche 
At distance folio w'd ; so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does. 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; there stay'd ,* 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers. 
And happy warriors, and immortal names, 
And said, " You shall not lie in the tents, but here, 
Ai.d nursed by those for whom you fought, and served 
With ftjmale hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motioulessly pale. 



280 THE PRINCESS 

Cold ev'n to her, she slgh'd ; and when she saw 

The haggard father's face and reverend beard 

Of grisly tAvine, all dabbled with the blood 

Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of pain 

Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead past 

A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said : 

" He saved my life : my brother slew him for it."" 

No more : at which the king in bitter scorn 

Drew from my neck the painting and the tress 

And held them up : she saw them, and a day 

Rose from the distance on her memory. 

When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress 

With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 

And then once more she look'd at my pale face : 

Till understanding all the foolish work 

Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 

Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 

Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 

She bow'd, she set the child on the earth ; she laid 

A feeling finger on my brows, and, presently, 

" O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is not dead : 

O let me have him Avith my brethren here 

In our own palace : we will tend on him 

Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 

To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make 

Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 

She said : but at the happy word " he lives,** 
My father stoop'd, refather'd o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, 
tncared for, spied its mother, and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach ?ts fatling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out, "Mine — mine — not youis, 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the child," 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd, 
And tm-n'd each face her way : wan was her cheek 



A MEDLEY. 281 

With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seem'd, 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible ! Lioness 
That with your long locks play tlie Lion's mane I 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will. 
What would you more ? give her the child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these, 
The conunon hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire, 
And tread you out forever : but howsoe'er 
Fij.'d in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give hep the child ! or if you scorn to lay it, 
Yourself, In hands so lately claspt with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could net kiil, 
Give me it: I will give it her." 



282 THE princess: 

He saia : 
At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening ; after sank and sank, 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pretty bud 1 
Lily of the vale ! half-open'd bell of the wood^ I 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
AVe two must part : and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd it : then — 
"All good go with thee ! take it. Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands, 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks ; 
'Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough, 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly ; 

" We two were friends : I go to mine own land 
Forever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet speak to me 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 'sdeath ! you blame the man ; 
You wrong yom-selves • — the woman is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have fought 
Your batt^ : kiss her ; take her hand, she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! i would sooner fight thrice o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin, 



A MEDLEY. 283 

And moved beyond his custom, Gama said : 

" I 've heard that there is iron in the blocd. 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not one ? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? not from me, 
Not from your mother now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart ' — just ere she died — 
* But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not one woi-d ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then for this. 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew fi-om summer heats and state, 
And had om' wine and chess beneath the planes. 
And many a pleasant hour with her that 's gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age, 
Now could you share your thought ; now should men seo 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth. 
And right ascension. Heaven knows what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, flint ! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one 7 
You Vi^ill not ? well — no heart have you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 
So said the small king moved beyond his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her fcrce 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept : 
B<?r head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
-A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 



284 THE PRINCESS : 

In a still water : then brake out my sire 

Lifting his grim head from my wounds. " O yoj, 

Woman, whom we thought woman even now, 

And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, 

Because he might have wish'd it — but we see 

The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, , 

And think that you might mix his draught with death, 

When your skies change again : the rougher hand 

Is safer ; on to the tents : take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, '' embrace me, come, 
Quick while I melt ; make reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour : 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being chid I 
/ seem no more : / want forgiveness too : 

1 should have had to do with none but maids. 
That have no links with men. Ah false but dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — why ? — Yet see^ 
Before these kings we embrace you yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion. 

And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter aU our maids 
Till happier times, each to her proper hearth : 
What use to keep them here now ? grant my prayer 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakhng ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Foliow'd : the king replied not : Cyril said : 



A MEDLEY. 286 

" Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the prince." 
"Ay so," said Ida, with a bitter smile, 
"Our laws are broken : let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song. 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. "Ay so," she said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour : 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
"Ay so ? " said Blanche : "Amazed am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 't was I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And block'd them out ; but these men came to woo . 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full af grief and scorn : 

" Fling our doors wide ! aU, aU, not one, but aUj 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul. 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit. 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood by us^ 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too. 
But shall rot. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, and there 



Jo THE PKINCESS: 

"Rested : but great the crush was, and each base, 

To left and right, of those tall columns drown'd 

In silken fluctuation and the swarm 

Of female whisperers : at the further end 

Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 

Close by her, like supporters on a shield, ' 

Bow-back'd with fear : but in the centre stood 

The conmion men with rolling eyes ; amazed 

They glared upon the women, and aghast 

The women stared at these, all silent, save 

When armor clash'd or jingled, while the day. 

Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 

A flying splendor out of brass and steel, 

That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, 

Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 

Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, 

And now and then an echo started up, 

And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 

Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times; -but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was changed 



Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shaps. 

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But too fond, when have J answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what ans^ver should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, my friend, I will not have thee die i 



287 



AjBk me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd* 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 



vn. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 

At first with all confusion : by and by 

Sweet order lived again with other laws : 

A kindlier influence reign'd ; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick : the maidens came, they talk'd. 

They sang, they read : till she not fair, began 

To gather light, and she that was, became 

Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 

With books, with flowers, with Angel offices. 

Like creatures native unto gracious act, 

And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke ; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her, female field : void was her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea fi:'om verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor fi:'om the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gazing there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 
And waste It seem'd and vain ; till down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 



288 THE PRINCESS : 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by morn tlie lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, > 

Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That niirsed me, more than infants in their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with her oft, 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Coiu-t-favor : here and there the small bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves 
To wile the length from languorous hom:^, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strange that sooi» 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd that hearts 
So gentle, so emplo^-^d, should close in love. 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields, 
She needs must wed him for her own good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peaca 

Nor only these : Love In the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 



A MEDIAE Y. 

With showers of random sweet on maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and Avhole; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
" You are not Ida ; " clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd a truth ; 
And stiU she fear'd that I should lose my mind. 
And often she believed that I should die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from ail their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but weU-nigh close to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cranim*d 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other side 
Hortensia s|x>ke against the tax ; behind 
19 



289 



290 THE PRINCESS : 

A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat," 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where I was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ; nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream. 
I would but ask you to fiilfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing :/ only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd ; she t>aused 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion fi-om the brinks of death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self sHpt fi-om her like a robe, 
And left her woman, loveher in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when sbe came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; and she 
Far-fleoted by the purple island-sides. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd h«r not 



A MEDLEY. 



291 



For worship without end ; nor end of mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, 
Fill'd thro* and thro* with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

f " Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : 
The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

\ Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. - 

I Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. i 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip , 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." ./ 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd san^) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills ? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morninor on the silver horns 



292 THE PRINCESS : 

Nor wilt tliou snare him in the white ravine, • 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in iurrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke. 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees."^ 

So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening ; then looked. Pale was the perfect face •, 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said. 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but ehe still were loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to one. 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than power 
In knowledge : something wild within her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to week 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a girl — 
"Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce ! 
When comes another such ? never, I think. 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, 



A MEDLEY. 29H 

And her great heart thro* all the faultful Piist 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent fi'om a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 

" Blame not thyself too much," I said, " nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Hgnceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
'^he womanT'cause is man's : they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godhke, bond or free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, 
Sta}'^ all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable, 
How shall men grow ? but work no more alone 1 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man. 
But divei-se : could we make her as the man, 
Sweet Love were slain: his dearest bond is this, 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years hker must they grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individuahties, 



294 



THE PRINCESS : 



But like each other ev*!! as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm ; 

Then springs the crowning race of humankind. . 

May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 
They will not.'* 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeingfeither sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
(The two-ceU'd heart beating, with one full stroke, 
Life.";) 

And again sighing she spoke : "A dream 
That once was mine I what woman taught you this ? * 

"Alone," I said, " from earlier than I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives \ 

A drowning life, besotted in sweet self^ \ 

Or pines in sad experience worse than death, .,^ 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crimej^ 
I Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one 
I Not learned, save in gracious household ways, 
\ Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
\ No^ AngelpBiTt a dearer being, all' dipiT"* 
I In Angel instincts, Breathing Paradise, 
I Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
: Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 
\ On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 
; Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, 
) And girdled her with music. Hag^ he 
; With such a mother 1 faith in womanktnd 
f Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
I Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
I He shall not blind his soul with clay." J 

^ "Butl,** 

Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unhke — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself yf'xth words : 



A MEDLEY. 29 

rhis mother is your model. I have heard 

Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 

You cannot love me." 

" Nay, but thee," I said, 
" From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro* thee. 
Indeed I love : the new. day comes, the light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change, 
This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine. 
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, aR the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich To-come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 
^I waste my heart in signs) let be. My bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
And so thro* those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come, 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you aU 

The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 

The words are mostly mine ; for when we ceased 

There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 

" I wish she had not yielded I " then to me, 

" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 

So pray'd the men, the women : I gave assent : 

Yet how to bind the scattered scheme of seven 



296 THE princess: 

Together In one sheaf? What style could suit? 

The men required that I should give throughout 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 

With which we banter'd little Lilia first ; 

The women — and perhaps they felt their power, 

For something in the ballads which they sang, ' 

Or in their silent influence as they sat, 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for something real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 

Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 

And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, 

And yet to give the story as It rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal. 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she pluck'd the gras& 
She flung it fi:-om her, thinking : last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
*' You — tell us what we are," who might have told, 
For she was crammed with theories out of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we cllmb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half In light, and half 
Far-shadowing fi:"om the west, a land of peace ; 
Gray halls alone among their massive groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost In belts of hop and breadths of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! '* said my college fi'iend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and there ! 



A MEDLFY. 297 

God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 
Some patient force to change them when we will 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat. 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not %ht, 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics strangei than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring o'lt ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow seas I 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

" Have patience," I rei)lied, " om-selves are Ml 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience I Give it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that guides.'' 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to speech — 



298 THE PRINCESS : , A MEDLEY. 

Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 

Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 

To follow ; a shout rose again, and made 

The long line of the approaching rookery swerve- 

From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 

From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang > 

Beyond the bourn of sunset ; 0, a shout 

More joyful than the city-roar that hails 

Premier or king I Why should not these great Sirs 

Give up their parks some dozen times a year 

To let the people breathe ? So thrice they cried, 

I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above the region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight, broke them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Liha, rising quietly. 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From thc^e rich silks, and home, well-pleased, we <¥eati 



UN MEMOIUAM. 299 



IN MEMORIAJVI 



Stuong Son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 
( Believing where we cannot prove ; 



Thine are these orbs of light and shade , 
Thou madest Life in man and brute; 
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 

Is on the skull which thou hast made. 



Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 



Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are oui-s, we know not how 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 



Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their day and cease to be . 

They are but broken lights of thee 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 



We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness • I*,t it grow. 



300 IN MEMORIAM. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; ' 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me. 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 
For merit lives from man to man. 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 



Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



or MfiMOKlAM. 
A. H. H. 

OBHT MDCCCXXXIII. 
I. 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 

To one clear harp in divers tones, \ 
That men may rise on stepping-stoneg 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 

And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" "Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn/' 

IL 

Old yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 
301 






802 IN MEMORIAM. 

The reasons bring the flower again, 

And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

not for thee the glow, the blooin, ^ 

Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail fi:-om out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

III. 

O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 

sweet and bitter in a breath, 
What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

"^ The stars," she whispers, " blindly run f 
A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a cry, 

And murmurs from the dying sun : 

"And all the phantom, Nature, stands — • 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty uands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 

Embrace her as my natural good; 
Or crush her, like a \ice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 

lY. 

To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark ; 

1 sit within a helmless bark. 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 

That thou should'st fail from thy de«ir* 



IN MKMORIAM. 



303 



Wlio scarcely darest to inquire, 
^ Wliat is it makes me beat so low V " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 

Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and c^i«^ 

** Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



V. 

I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul witliin. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, 

Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 

VI. 

One writes, that " Other friends remain," 
That " Loss is common to the race " — 
And common is the commonplace. 

And vacant chaiF well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common I Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be. 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done. 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 



804 IN MEMOHIAM- 

mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head Is bow*d, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought ' 

At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair, 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love 1 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking " this will please liim b*^ 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 

VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand. 



IN MEMOKIAM. 305 

A band that can be clasp'd no more — 

Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 

And like a guilty thing I creep 
At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell 

And learns her gone and far from home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and hail, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet 
The field, the chamber and the street 

For aU is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 

In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanished eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloooij 

Or dying, there at least may die. 

IX. 
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
20 



306 IN MEMORIAM. 

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

Ail night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the provr 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 

My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 

X. 

I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife. 

And travell'd men from foreign lands : 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanished life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 

That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chahce of the grapes of God ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 307 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine. 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 

XI. 

Calm is the morn without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
' And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 

And on these dews that drench the ftirzc, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : ,, 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And croAvded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main : 

• Calm and deep peace In this wide air, 

These_leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 
if any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 

To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 

A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliflfs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 

And reach the glow of southern sklei 



308 IN MEMORIAM. 

And see the sails at distance rise, 
And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying ; " Comes he thus, my friend ? 

Is this the end of all my care ? " 

And circle moaning in the air : 
'• Is this the end ? Is this the end ? '* ^ 

And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn. 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII. 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtfiil arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall Hke these ; 

Which weep a loss forever new, 

A void where heart on heart, reposed ; 

And, where warm hands have prest and clos'd, 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approaching sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales. 

And not the bm-den that they bring. 

XIV. 

If one should bring me this report. 

That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying In the poi-t ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 809 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 

The man I held as half-divine ; 

Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 
And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 

And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XV. 
To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping day : 

The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 
The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

Tae forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 

The cattle huddled on the lea ; 

And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 
The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 

Athwart a plane of molten gla**, 
I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 

And but for fear it is not so, 

The wild unrest that lives in woe 
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher. 

And onward drags a laboring breast, 
( And topples round the dreary west, 
A looming bastion fringed with fire, 'i 



310 IN MEMORIAM. 

XVI. 

What words are these have fall'n from me ? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast, 

Or sorrow such a changeling be V 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

But knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 

And staggers bhndly ere she sink ? 
And stunn'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for : such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the watei-s day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; 



IN MEMOKIAM. 311 

And balmy drops in summer dark 
Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious reHcs brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 



*T IS well ; 't is something ; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

*T is little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no more 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills : 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in th^ hills. 



312 IN iMEMORIAM. 

Tlie Wye Is hush'd nor moved along, 

And husli'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 

XX. 

The lesser griefs that may be said, 

That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it Is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind : 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this.'* 

My lighter moods are like to these, 

That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse Is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good ! how kind ! and he Is gone/' 

XXI. 

I SING to him that rests below. 

And, since the gi-asses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 

And sometimes harshly will he speak ; 



IN MEMOlllAM. 313 

" This fellow -would make weakness weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be, 

He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth, "Is this an hour 

For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people throng 

The chaii-s and thrones of civil power ? 

A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth, her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 

I do but sing because I must. 
And pipe but as the linnets sing: 

And one is glad ; her note Is gay, 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stoi'n away. 

XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go, 

^\'hich led by tracts that pleased us weli 
Tliro' four sweet years arose and feD, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way, 

And, crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May : 

But where the path we walk'd began 

To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 

As we descended following Hope, 
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man • 



3J4 IN MEMORIAM. 

T\Tio broke our fair companionship, 

And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the ibid, 

And duU'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think, that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " How changed fi:-om where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan : 

When each by turns was guide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good. 

And aU was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambera of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us aU the thicket rang 

lo many a flute of Arcady." 

XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say ? 



IN MEMORIAM. 315 

The very source and fount of Day 
Ib dash'd with wandering isles of night. , 

If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

^Rlakes former gladness loom so great ? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this rehef ? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far ; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein ? 

XXV. 

I KNOW that this was life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it TSras that made me move 

As light as carrier-birds in air ; 

I loved the weight I had to bear, 
Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave in twaia 

The lading of a single pain. 
And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVI. 

Sthx onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

^.And if that eye which watches guilt 

And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 
And towers fall'n as soon as built— : 



316 IN MKMORIAM. 

Oh, if indeed that eye foresee 

Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

ITien might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas. 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me fi-om my proper scorn. 

XXVII. 

I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the smnmer woods : 

1 envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 
To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 

The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

2 hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 
*T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at aU. 



T<\Q Serenade (Tlieocritus 111) 

"Would t}iat I were 
The liumming bee to pass witliin tliy cave, 
T]iriddinp, the ivy and the feather-fern 
By wh i c li t h u ' i" t 1 1 i d d en." i 



Cyclops ( Theocritus ,X1 ) 

*'0 that I had been horn a thing with f:ins 
To sink anear thee, and to kiss thy hands, -- 
If thou denied St thy mouth, — and now t(3 bring 
Tnite lilies to the': and Lhe red-leavecl bloom 
Of tender poppies." 



xxvin. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ i 
The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hiD 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 

From far and near, on mead and mooi, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace* 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 

For they controU'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy^ 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 

XXIX. 
With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; 
317 



318 IN MEMORIAM. 

Whicli brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambol'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter land ; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year ; impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us : surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep Is sweet," 
And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not die 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor chan^ to us, althougli they change ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



319 



Rapt from the fickle and the frail 

With gather'd power, yet the same, • 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 

Draw forth the cheerful day fi^om night : 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

Tlie light that shone when Hope was bom. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 

And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

" Where weffe thou, brother, those four days ? ' 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 

The streets were fill'd with joyful sountl. 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ I 
The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 
He told it not ; or something seal'd 

The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

AU subtle thought, all curious fears, 

Borne down by gladness so complete. 



320 IN MEMORIAM. 

She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, , , ^-,. 

Whose loves in higher love endure ; ' ^ \J 

What souls possess themselves so pure, V^ ^ ' 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



<N^- 



XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air. 
Whose faith has centre everyAvhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 

Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she Hnks a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou faU not in a world of sin, 

And eVn for want of such a type. 

XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this, 

That life shall live for evermore, ^. ] 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame. 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he woiks 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'T were hardly worth my while to choose 
Of things all mortal, or to use 

A little patience ere 1 die ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 321 

T were best at once to sink to peace, 

Like birds the charming serpent draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 

Should murmur from the narrow house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body bowa ; 

Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " 

Might I not say ? " Yet even here, 

But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing aUve : ** 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and more, 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape, 
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho' truths in mailhood darkly join. 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 

Where truth in closest words shall fail. 



822 IN MEMORIAM. 

When truth embodied in a tale 
Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought ; 

WTiich he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 

XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 

" Thou pratest here where thou art least 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

Go down beside thy native rill, 

On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

But brooding on the dear one dead. 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 

I murmur'd, as I came along. 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the Master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song.'* 



rs MEMORIAM. ^23 

XXXVIII. 

With weary steps I loiter on, 

Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 

The herald melodies of spring, 

But in the songs I love to sing 
A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of the€ 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



XXXIX. 

Could we forget the widow'd hour 

And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower I 

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that com* 

Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtiul joys the father move, 

And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The foil-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern 1 

How often shall her old fireside 



324 IN MEMORIAM. 

Be cheer'd witii tidings of the bride, 
How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 

And bring her babe, and make her boast» 
Till even those that miss'd her most, 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 

Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



XL. 

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 

As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 
As fiies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground^ 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be — 

That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee : 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet ofl when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me cold. 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 

The wonders that have come to thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life l^ehind. 



IN MEMORIAM. 325 

XLI. 

I VEX my heart with fancies dhn : 

He still outstript me in the race ; 

It was but unity of place 
rhat made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 

And he the much-beloved agam, 

A lord of large experience, train 
To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 

That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 

When one that loves but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 

XLII. 
If Sleep and Death be truly one, 

And every spirit's folded bloom 

Thro' all its intervital gloom 
In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 

Bare of the body, might it last,* 

And silent traces of the past 
Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lc«t to man ; 

So that still garden of the souls 

In many a llgured leaf enrolls 
The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 

As when he kved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with th^ dawning soul. 



XLIII. 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways o{ his \ ",ad. 



326 IN MEMORIAM. 

The days have vanlsh'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLIV. 

The baby new to earth and sky, 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I : " 

But as he grows he gathers much, 

And learns the use of " I," and " me,** 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 

Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLV. 

We ranging down this lower track, 

The path we came by, thorn and flower. 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour. 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 



IN MEMOIUAM. 827 

But clear fi-om marge to marge sliall bloom 
The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time revealM ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 

A bounded field, nor stretching far ; 
Look also. Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth fi:om marge to marge. 

XL VI. 

That each, who seems a separate whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 

Eternal form shall still divide 

The eternal soul fi:'om all beside ; 
And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 

Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell 1 We lose ourselves in light." 

XLYII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed, 

Then these were such as men might scorn ; 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may Hit, 

Aiid makes it vassal unto love : 



828 IN MEMOKIAM. 

And hence, Indeed, she sports with words, 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLVIII. 

From art, from nature, from the schools, 
Let random infkiences glance. 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe. 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 

XLIX. 

Be near me when my light is low, . 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prici 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick. 

And aU the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is rack'd with pang-s that conquer trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when nKjr faith is diy. 

And men the flies of latter spring, 



IN MEMORIAM. 329 

That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 
And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

L. 

Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should stiU be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide ? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden shame 

And I be lessen'd, in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with tears untrue : 

Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great Death : 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 

Ye watch, like Gcd, the rolling hours 
With larger, other eyes than ours. 

To make allowance for us all. 

LI. 
I CANNOT lovfe thee as I ought. 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 

My words are only words, and moved 
Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," 

The Spirit of true love replied ; 

" Thou canst not move me from thy side, 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

** What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears ? 

What record ? not the smless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue . 



S30 IN MEMORIAM. 

♦* So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd sheU from pearl.* 

LII. 

How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys. 
Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 

Wlio wears his manhood hale and green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 

Oh, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beycnd her mark, and be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell 

Lm. 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 



m MEMORIAM. 331 

At last — far off — at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night : 

An infant crying for the light : 
And with no language but a cry. 

LIV. 

Thp: wish, that of the living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 

That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds, 

And finding that of fifty seeds 
She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

LV. 

" So careful of the type ? " but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, " a thousand types are gone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does^ but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he. 



332 IN MEMORIAM. 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Wlio built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — • 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their slime, 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless I 
What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 

LVI. 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale , 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined , 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 

One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
** Adieu, adieu " for evermore. 



IN MEMOKIAM. 333 

Lvn. 

In those sad words I took farewell : 

Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 

As drop by drop the water falls 
In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 

Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half-conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 
Abide a httle longer here, 

And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

/- LVIII. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife. 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood. 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 

Nor it will it lessen from to-day ; 

But I '11 have leave at times to play 
As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 

With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 

LIX. 

He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is se*t 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 



i]34 IN MEMORIAM. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 

She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealons of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 

And tease her till the day draws by : 
At night she weeps, " How vain am 1 1 

How should he love a thing so low ? " 

LX. 

If, in thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

Tlie perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below. 

How dimly character'd and slight. 

How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and night 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow 1 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. 

Where thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. 

LXI. 

Tho' if an eye that 's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail 
Then he my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy. 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

Ai I breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 



^ IN MEMOUIAM. 335 

Or In the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flyins; smile. 

LXII. 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven 5 

And I am so much more than these, 

As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So may'st thou watch me where I weep. 

As, unto vaster motions bound, 

The circuits of thine orbit round 
A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIIL 

Post thou look back on what hath been, 

As some divinely gifted man, 

Whose life in low estate began 
And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 

And grasps the skirts of happy chance^ 
And breasts the blows of circumstance 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known 

And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 

Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire; 

Yet feeb, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stieam, 



336 l^ MEMORIAM. 

rhe limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

frith one that was his earliest mate ; 

WTio ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 

LXIV. 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 
With " Love's too precious to be lo«t| 

A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrjugnt 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee, 

And move thee on to noble ends. 

LXV. 

You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost, 
Wliich makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land. 

Whose jest among his fiiends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand ; 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 



IN MEMORIAM. OO i 

His inner da^ can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 

LXVI. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears. 

As slowly steals a silver flame 

Along the letters of thy name, 
And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies , 
And closing eaves of wearied eyes 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

LXVII. 

When In the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath • 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, 

l^or can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn. 

When all our path was fresh with dew, 

And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 

It is the trouble of my youth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

22 



338 IN MEMORIAM. 

LXVIII. 

I dream'd there would be Spring no more, 
That Nature's ancient power was lost : 
The streets were black with smoke and fioet, 

They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 

From youth and babe and hoary hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

ITie fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child : 
I found an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was bright r 

He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 

That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief^ 

The words were hard to understand. 

LXIX. 

1 CANNOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and paUed shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors. 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive; 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 



IN MEMORIAM. 339 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXX. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 

Of men and minds, the dust of change, 
The days that grow to something strange, 

[n walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXI. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 

And hovlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white. 

And lash with storm the streaming pane ? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

WTio might'st have heav'd a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet look'd the same, 



340 IN MEMORIAM, 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime, 
When the dark hand struck down thro' time, 

And cancell'd Nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou may*st thy burden'd brows 

Thro* clouds that drench the morning siar, 
An 1 whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 

Cimb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless graj. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXII. 

So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be, . 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw. 

The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 

Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-enfolds the large results 

Of force that would havo forged a name. 

LXXIII. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face. 

To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly f een before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 

I see thee what thou art, and know 



IN MEMORIAM. 341 



Thy likeness to the wise below, 
Thy kinch-ed with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



LXXIV. 

I LEA\'^ thy praises unexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guessed ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 

In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long, 

And round thee with the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish*d in the green, 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun. 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXV. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of ^ac© 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secidar abyss to come. 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 



342 IN MEMOKIAM. 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
And what are they when these remain 

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 

LXXVI. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that li« 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something else, 

Sung by a long-foi^otten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Lxxvn. 

AoAm at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 

The jTile-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place. 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die^ 

No — mixt with all this mystic frame 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry 

LXXVIII. 

" More than my brothers are to me " — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart I 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love, in fee, - 

343 



844 IN MEMOEIAM. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in Nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 

Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 

One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 

But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXIX. 

If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly fi:om his side, 

And di'opt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 

The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought. 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burden of the weeks, 
But turns his burden into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unused example fi-om the grave 

Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXX. 
Could I have said while he was here 

" My love shall now no further range 



lis MEMORIAM. 315 

There cannot come a mellower change, 
For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 

What end is here to my complaint ? 
This hamiting whisper makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more.** 

But Death returns an answer sweet ; 

"My sudden fi-ost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 

LXXXI. 

I WAGE not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and face 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him, can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

Lxxxn. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 

O sweet new-year delaying long ; 

Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 
Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee fi-om the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 



34 G ^N mp:moiuam. 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire, 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
Ttat longs to burst a frozen bud, 
And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXIII. 

When I contemplate all alone 

The Hfe that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown ; 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 

A central warmth diflfusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on, 
When thou should'st link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle ** on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange-flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 

The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hiUs 



IN MEMOKIAM. 347 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 

Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; 

What time mine own might also flee, 

As llnk'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee. 

Arrive at last tlie blessed goal, 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand. 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 

Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content. 

LXXXIV. 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at aU — — 

O true in word, and tried In deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; 
And whether love for him have draln'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 



348 IN MEMORIAM. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message faUs, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro* the blissful climes. 

And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge thai the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remained, whose hopes were dim, 

Whose life, whose thoughts were little wortl^ 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 

O heart with kindUest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 

How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A hfe that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might expr»«8 
All-comprehensive tenderness. 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 



IN MEMORIAM 849 

Likewise tlie imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, that divided half of such 
A fiiendship as had master'd Time; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 

And Spring that swells the naiTOw brookfe. 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks. 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 

Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
"Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

1 watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 

The starry clearness of the free ? 

How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 
Some painless sjinpathy with pain ? '* 



350 IN MEMORIAM. 

And liglitly does the whisper fall ; 

" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this ; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss, 
And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall provB 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
1 could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 

The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace. 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, the' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the Imperfect gift I bring. 

Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXV. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



m MEMOKIAM. 351 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new hfe that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death., 

Ill brethren, let the fancy fly. 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odor streaming far 

To where in yonder orient star 
A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 

LXXXVL 

I PAST beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown 
I roved at random thro' the to^vn, 

And saw the tumult of the halls 

And heard once more in college fanes 

The storm their high-built organs ma^e, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 

The measured pulse of racing oars ,^ 

Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 

The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 

I linger'd ; all within was noise 

Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor ; 

WTiere once we held debate, a b^nd 

Of youthfid friends, on mind and ar* 
And labor, and the changing luswx 

And all the framework of the land , 



S52 IN MEMORIAM. 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 

But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he. 

Would cleave the mark. A willing eai 
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and grace 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face. 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
* Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 

And in the midmost heart of grief 
Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

^lU flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXVIII. 

^ITCH-ELMS that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright, 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 

My Arthur found your shadows fair, 



IN MKMORIAM, 358 

And shook to all the liberal air 
The dust and din and steam of town: 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawli ig court? 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this rett-eat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat : 

O soimd to rout the brood of cares, 

The sweep of scythe in morning dew 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears I 

bliss, when all In circle drawn 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

Tlie Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung, 

Or here she brought the harp and flurig 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods. 

Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate. 
Or touch'd the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if T praised the busy town, 

Hf loved to rail against it still. 
Fur " ground in yonder social mill 

W«5 rub each other's angles down, 

And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 



354 IN MEMORIAM. 

We talk'd : the stream beneath us ran 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had f^ll'n into her father's grave, ' 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers. 

We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honied hours. 

LXXXIX. 

He tasted love with half his mind. 

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 

Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away, 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. 

Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 

Whatever change the years have wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



IN KEMORIAM. 355 

XC. 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 

And rarely pipes the mounted thrush 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm. 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 

XCI. 
If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count It vain 

As but the canker of the brain ; 
Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 

Together in the days behind, 

I might but say, I hear a wind 
Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho* it spake and bared to view 

A fact within the coming year ; 

And tho' the months, revolving near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 

But spiritual presentiments. 

And such refraction of events 
As often rises ere they rise. 

XCII. 
I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 



356 IN MEMORIAM. 

That stays him from the native land, 
Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Whore all the nerve of sense is numb; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. ' 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
0, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 

The vi^ish too strong for words to name • 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIII. 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought woul' '1 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

rhe conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 

XCIV. 

By night we linger'd on the lawn. 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 357 

And calm that let tlie tapers burn 

Unwavering : not a cricket cliirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

TtTiile now we sang old songs that peal'd 

From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dai-k arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 

Withdrew themselves fi-om me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 

Of that glad year which ®nce had been, 
In those fall'n leaves which kept their greei^ 

The noble lettei-s of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 

Tlie silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touch'd me fi-om the past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flcish'd on mine, 

And mine In his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The dee^) pulsations of the world, 



358 IN MEMORIAM. 

JEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time — the shocks of Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length my trance 

Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words I but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became ; 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knolls once more where, coueh'd at fiase 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the fuD-foliaged elms, and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 

** The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; 

And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, 

To broaden into boundless day. 

xcv. 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,' you, whose light-blue eye« 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-bom. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed, 
"WTno touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 



IN MEMORIAM. 359 

He fougbt liis doubts and gathered strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind , 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVI. 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December Junej 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 

The days she never can forget 

Are earnest that he loves her yet, 
Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho* rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 

He reads the secret of the star, 

He seems so near and yet so far. 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 



360 IN MEMORIAM. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his greatness i8| 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 

Of early faith and plighted vows ; ^ 

She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 

She darkly feels him great and wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 

XCVII. 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with liim; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
Tliat City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gieaiiis 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness. Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 

By each cold hearth, and sadness flingi 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double ti<les of chai-iots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 



IN MEMORIAM. 361 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crijijson or in emerald rain. 

XCVIII. 

RlS£ST thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the henia, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 

On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles faal 
By meadows breathing of the pa&t. 

And woodlands holy to the <lead; 

WTio murmurest in the foliaged eavcs 

A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest wuth thy balmy breath 

To mjTlads on the genial earth. 

Memories of bridal, or of birth, 
And unto myriads more, of death. 

wheresoever those may be. 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 
They know me not, but mom-n with me. 

XCIX. 

1 CLIMB the hill : from end to end 

Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 
Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray eld grange, or lonely fold. 

Or low morass and whispering reed. 
Or simple stile fi^om mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 



362 IN MEMORIAM. 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 

Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 

To left and right thro' meadowy curvea, 

That feed the mothers of the flock : 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 

C. 

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 

Kay round with flames her disk of seed. 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

Tlie brook shall babble down the plain, 
At noon or when thejesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 

And flood the haunts of hern and cn*i.« 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape gro\< 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



IN MEMORIAM. 268 

CI. 

We leave the well-beloved place 

WTiere first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 

As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diveree love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 

Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 

Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the boweri. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 

And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not }aeld each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields ami farms , 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of npfn-r^t. 



en. 

Ow that last night before we -went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall, 

And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

Tlie hall with harp and carol rang. 

They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, the* veil'd, was known to me. 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever : then flew in a dove 

And brought a sunmions from the sea : 

And when they learnt that I must go 

They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made the banks. 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster gi-ew the shore, 

And roll'd the floods in |;rander space, 
364 



IN MKMORIAM. 3G6 

The maidens gatlier'd strength and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 

Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 

Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 

" We served thee here," they said, *' so long. 

And wilt thou leave us now behind r " 

So rapt T was, they could not win 

An answer from my lips, but he 

Replying, " Enter likewise ye 
And go with us : " they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

cm. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still , 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hoar of rest 



366 IN MEMOKIAM. 

A single murmur In the breast, 
That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers* voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But aU is new unhallow'd ground. 



CIV. 

To-NiGHT ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 

And strangely falls the Christmas-eve. 

Our father's dust Is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 

There in due time the woodbine blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 

The genial hour with mask and mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of time 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast. 

By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I lovea, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

rhro' which the spirit breathes no more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens In the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer In the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



EN MEMOKIAM. 867 

cv. 

RmG out wild bells to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 

For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes^ 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 

The civic slander and the spite; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand j 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVI. 
It is the day when he was bom, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
OF vnpor. leavino; niorht forlorn. 



368 IN MEMORIAM. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 

To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 

To darken on the rolling brine 

That breaks the coast. But fetch tl v»r' 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let thejn lie, 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVII. 

I WILL not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone. 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith. 

And vacant yearning, tho' with mi^,ifi 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

^^^lat find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting hymns 
And on the depths of death there swinj* 

The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with tlieo. 



IN MEMORIAM. 
CVIII. 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man : 
Impassion'd logic, which outran 

The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good. 

But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 

Of freedom in her regal seat 

Of England ; not the schoolboy heat. 

The blind hysterics of the Gelt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 

In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 

Have look'd on : if they look'd m vaia^ 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

CIX. 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 

The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarmed of pride^ 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by. 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why: 
24 



afv9 



370 IN MEMORIAM. 

While I, thy dearest, set apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 

And loved them more, that they were thine 

The gracefiil tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill. 

But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 

ex. 

The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him that grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 

His want in forms for fashion sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he. 

To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of nobl-i mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 

Or villain fancy fleeting by. 
Drew in the expression of an eye. 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXI. 
High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 

That I, who gaze with temperate eyei 

On glorious insufficiencies, 
Set liffht by narrower perfectnes*. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

But thou, that fiUest all the room 

Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souk, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 

And tracts of calm from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

CXII. 

'T IS held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
"Which not alone had guided me, 

But served th^i seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who ki^aw thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to Mfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life of civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another com^se, 

With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 

CXIII. 

Wh •) loves not Knowledge ? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! ^Vho shall fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 



371 



372 IN MEMOPvIAM. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenanco 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — , 

She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from tlie brain 

Of demons ? fiery-hot to burst 

All bamriers in her onward race 

For power. Let her know her place , 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

Wifcii wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind, 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O fi:'iend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and how 

In reverence and in charity. 

CXIV. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 

The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 



IN MEMOllIAM. 373 

Where now the sea-mew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and ily 
llie happy biixls, that change their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

CX\(. 

Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the cu'cscent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-onent out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the &©e will shine 

Upon me, while I muse alone ; 

And that dear voice, I once hav^ knowo. 
Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 

CXVI. 
O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 

To hold me from my proper place, 

A little while from his embrace, 
For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That ouit of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 

And unto meeting when we meet, 
Delight a hundredfold accrue. 

For every grain of sand that runs, 

And every span of shade that steals. 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the coui-ses of the suns. 



374 m MEMORIAM. 

CXVII. 
Contemplate all this work of Time, 

The giant laboring in his youth ; 

Nor dream of human love and truth, 
As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead ^ 

Are breathers of an ampler day 
Forever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random fornw, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to cl'uie 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place. 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 

Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom. 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXVIII. 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long withdrawn 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A light-blue lane of early dawn, 
And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland 

And bright the friendship of thine eye ; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 

CXIX. 

I TRUST I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 

Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 

cxx. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And ready, thou, to die with him. 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain, 

The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, ; 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the* night, 

By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market-boat is on the stream. 

And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village-hammer clink, 

And seest the moving of the team. 



375 



S76 IN MEMORIAM. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the same. 

CXXI. 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, v 

While I rose up ao-alnst my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me nov^, 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 

And every dew-drop paints a bow. 
The wizard ligiitnings deeply glow, 

And every thought breaks out a rose._; 

CXXIL 

Theke rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! 

There where the long street roars, hath been 
The stillness ©f the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and tliey flow 

From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it true 
For tlio' my lips may brcatiic adieu, 

I cannot think the ihing farewell, y 



r' 



IN MKMOKIAM. 877 

CXXIII. 



That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faith ; oiir g:hastliest dou it ; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun, 

Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions iten may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 

I heard a voice, " Believe no mure," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " J have felt," 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 

But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near; 

And whM I am beheld again 

"What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. , 

CXXIV. 

Whatever I have said or sung. 

Some bitter notes my harp Avould give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue, 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look through dimmer eyes : 
Or Love but play'd with gracious lie«. 

Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 

He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if tlie words were sweet and strong 

lie set his royal signet there • 



378 IN MEMORIAM. 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxv. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho* as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVI. 

And aU is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But iU for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crates ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

. And molten up, and roar in flood ; / 

The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 
And the great Mon sinks in blood. 

And compass'd by the fires of HeU ; 

While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is welL 



m MEMORIAM. 879 

CXXVII. 
The love that rose on stronger wings, 

Unpalsied when he met with Death, 

Is comrade of the lesser faith 
That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 

To fool the crowd with glorious lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries. 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might weU descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
" That all, as in some piece of art, 
Is toil cobperant to an end. 

CXXVIII. 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire. 

So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

O loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Snown and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye , 
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die^ 

Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee> 



380 IN MEMOKIAM. 

CXXIX. 

Thy voice is on the rolling- air; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

: What art thou then ? I cannot gne^ ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 
I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thoxL 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

1 have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die;. 

cxxx. 

O LIVING will that shaH endnre 

When all that seems shall suffer shock 
Rise in the spirituai^pcJi, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voace as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control, 

The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And ail we flow from, soul in soul. 



O TRUE and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage-lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage-day 

Is music more than any song. 



IN MEMORIAM. 381 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since fii*st he told me that he loved 
A daiTghter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 

Some thrice three years : they went and carae, 
Kemade the blood and changed the frame. 

And y ^.t is love not less, but moie ; 

No L'/Jiger caring to embalm 

Ix'x dying songs a dead regret, 

But like a statue solid-set, 
And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

Rut where is she, the bridal flower, '^ 

That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee ; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud. 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 

For thee she grew, for thee she gi'ows 
Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower 



582 m MEMORIAM. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 

And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my knee, 

That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 

The " wilt thou " answer'd, and again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twaic 

Her sweet " I will," has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful mom. 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 

The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

Th( dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 

Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave Is bright for me. 

For them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share the morning-feast. 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 



IN MEMORIAM. 383 

Let all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter smi ; 

My drcMDping memory will not shan 
The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

We wish them store of happy days. 

Noi count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 

And those white-favor'd horses wait; 
They rise, but hnger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 

But sweeps away as out we pass 
To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others the t are w ?d. 
And how she look'd, abd whet he said, 

And back we come at fah of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 

The shade of passing thought, the we<ilth 
Of words and wit, the double health, 

The crowning cup, the three-times-three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake so load, 
And high in heaven the streaming cloudy 

And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down. 

Till over down and over dale 

All night the shining vapor sail 
And pass the silent-lighted town, 



384 IS MEMORIAM. 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain-head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and sprear? 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 

With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and oeean sounds, 
And, star and system roiling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro* life of lower piiase, 
Result in man, be bcrn and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

On knowledge ; under whose comirand 
Is Earfh and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and did 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fi-uit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble tj-pe 
Appearing ere the times were ripe- 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves. 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. ) 



MADD. 

PART I. 

I. 
1. 
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
lis lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers, " Death." 

2. 
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 
liis who had given me life — O father I O God ! waa it 

weU? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the 

ground : 
There vet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 

3. 
Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast specu- 
lation had fail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with 

despair. 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling 

wail'd. 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 

4. 
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuflied step, by a, dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd 
fright, 

25 385 



S86 MAUD. 

And my pulses closed their gates wltb a shock on my heart 

as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering 

fiight. 

5. 
Villany somewhere I whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be main- 

tain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the 

Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and 

drain'd. 

6. 
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have 

made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own 

hearthstone ? 

7. 
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of 

mind, 
\Yhen who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's 

ware or his word ? 
Ja it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a 

kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the swflsrd. 

b. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope no7 

trust ; 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 
Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes 

and dust. 

9. 
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone 

by," 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, 

like swine, . 
Wlien only the ledger live?, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes 1 — but a company forges the 

wine 

10. 
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife^ 



MAUD. "387 

WTiile chalk and alum and plaster are sold to tlie poor for 

bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, 

11. 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the ^^llanous centre* 

t«ts 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless 

nights, 
\\TiiIe another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as 

he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

12. 
When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial-fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war bj land and by 

sea. 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 

13. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by tha 
hiU, 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out 
of the foam, 

That the smoothfaced, snubnosed rogue would leap from hia 
counter and till, 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard- 
wand, home. 

14. 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 

Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and 
die 

Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to 
bixDod 

On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's 
lie? 

15. 

Would there be sorrow for me 1 there was love in the pas- 
sionate shriek. 

Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the 
grave — 

Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise 
and speak 

And rave at tie lie and the liar, ah God, as he used ia 



388 MAUD. 

16. 
I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor 

and the main. 
Why shotdd I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me 

here? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of 

pain, 
Were it not wise if T fled from the place and the pit and 

the fear ? 

17. 
Workmen up at the Hall I — they are coming back from 

abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a million- 

naire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of 

Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to 

be fair. 

18. 
Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and child- 
ish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the 

Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled 

the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of 

all,— 

19. 
What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring 

me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be 

the worse. 
I wiU bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe ta 

his own. 



II. 

Long have I sigh'd for a oalm : God grant I may find it at 

last 1 
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor 

salt. 
But a, cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage 

past, 
Ferfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where Is th* 

fault ? 



MAUD. 389 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 
FatJtily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 
Dead perfection, do more; nothing more, if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the 

rose. 
Or ac underlip, you may call It a little too ripe, too fuU, 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 
From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch 

of spleen. 

III. 
CoLP and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd, 
Pale with the golden beaan of an eyelash dead on the 

cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as 

before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound. 
Luminous, gemlike, ghosthke, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no 

more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden 

ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship-wrecking 

roar, 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragged down by 

the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 

1. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
!n the Httle grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, hke the bountiful season 

bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by ths breeze of a sofVei 

clime. 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sappliire-spangled marriage-ring of the land ? 



890 MAUD. 

2. 

Below me, there, Is the village, and looks how quiet and 

small ! 
And y3t bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and 

spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a 

Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the 

Hall; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass Hke a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 



When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the 

race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I 
bow'd ; 
. I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so 

proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and 
poor. 

4. ' 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and 

steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, hke a stoic, or like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by 

the shrike, 
And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plun- 
der and prey. 

5. 
We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair In her 

flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at 

a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's 

shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



MAur. S91 

6. 
A monstrous eft was of old the liOrd and Master of Earth, 
For liiin did his high sun flame, and his river blllowinor ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning 

race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is fii-st, but is he the last '? is he not too base ? 

7. 
The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
Tiie passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and 

vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were 

more 
Than to walk all day hke the sultan of old in a garden of 

spice. 

8. 
For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring 

them about ? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary 

fail ? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 
I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 



Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways. 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of 
Kes; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hii^h 
ing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or 
not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poison- 
ous flies. 

10 

And most of all would I flee fi-ora the cruel madness of 
love, 

The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 

Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a 
wife. 



392 MAUD. 

Your mother Is mute in her grave as her image Is marble 

above ; 
Four father is ever In London, you v?'ander about at you? 

wIU; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain In the lilies of life. 

V, 

1. 

A VOICE by the cedar-tree, 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that Is known to me, 

A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call I 

Singing alone in the morning of life, 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 

2. 
Maud with her exquisite face, 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, - 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die. 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean 
And myself so languid and base. 

3. 
Silence, beautiful voice ! 
Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still I I will hear you no more. 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow-grass, and adore, 
Not her, who Is neither courtly nor kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VI. 

1. 
Morning arises stormy and pale, 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud. 
And the budded peal^s of the wood are bow'«i 



3^3 



Cauglit and cufT'd by the gale : 
1 had laucied it would be fair. 

2. 
Wliom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset biu-n'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet ? 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile so swee^ 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 

3. 
And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams- 
Ready to bm-st in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gr'iy delight. 

4. 
What if with her sunny hair, 
And smile as sunny as cold, 
She meant to weave me a snare 
Of some coquettish deceit, 
Cleopatra-like as of old 
To entangle me when we met, 
To have her lion roll in a silken ivjt 
And fawn at a victor's feet. 

5. 
Ah, what shall I be at filly 
Should Nature keep me alive, 
K I find the world so bitter 
"When I am but twenty-five ? 
Yet, if she were not a cheat, 
If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile were ail that I dreans «1 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 
What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy-d(3spot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bail 



39^ 



Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How pi-ettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
in another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

7. 
For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and wani, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 

8. 
Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone . 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse. 
And my own sad name in corners cried, 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen-fixt 
On a heart half turn'd to stone. 

9. 
O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what^was it else within me wi'ought 
But, I fear, 'the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



895 



10. 
I have play'd with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 
Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 
Yet, if she were not a cheat. 
If Maud were all that she seem'd. 
And her smile had all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 
1. 
Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where ? 
Did I dream it an hour ago. 

When asleep in this arm-chair? 
2. 
Men were drinking together. 

Drinking and talking of me ; 
" Well, if it jDrove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 
3. 
Is it an echo of something 

Read with a boy's delight, 
Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night ? 
4. 
Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me ; 
" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 

VIII. 

SHE^came to the village-church, 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker, until I heard no longer 

The snowy-banded dilettante. 

Delicate-handed priest intone \ 



£^96 



And thought, Is It pride, and mused and sIgh'dL 
" No, surely, now it cannot be pride." 

IX. 

I WAS walking a mile. 
More than a mile fi-om the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and tlie moor, 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor-land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something fiash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



1. 

Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine 
Master of half a servile shire. 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, fii'st of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



397 



2 

Wliat, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he ; 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud coidd be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit-mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with mj-self and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am L 

3. 
Last week came one to the county town, 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well : 
This broad-brim'd hawker of holy thing-s, 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, and ri! 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence ? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell 1 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 

4. 
I wish I could hear again 
The chivalrous battle-song 
That she warbled alone in her joy ! 
I might persuade myself then 
She would not do herself this great wrong. 
To take a wanton, dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 

5. 
Ah God, for a man with heart, Lead, hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 



398 



Wliatever t'-aey call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

6. 
And all for a man to arise In me, 
Tliat the man I am may cease to ba ! 

XI, 

1. 

LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweel | 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 

2. 
Let the sweet heavens endure, 

Not close and darken above me 
Before I am quite quite sure 

That there is one to love me ; 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 

XII. 

1. 
Birds In the high Hall-garden 

When twilight was falling, 
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 

They were crying and calling. 
2. 
Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else ? was with h^ 
Gathering woodland lilies. 
Myriads blow together. 
3. 
Birds In our wood sang 

Ringing thro' the vallies, 
Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 
4. 
I kiss'd her slender hand, 

^he took the kiss sedately ; 



399 



Maud Is not seventeen, 

But she is tall and stately. 
6. 
I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 
6. 
^ I know the way she went 
, Home with her maiden posy, 

I For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 
7. 
Birds in the high Hall-garden 

Were crying and calling to her, 
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 
8. 
Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
You are not her darling. 

XIII. 

1. 
Scorn'd, to^jbe scorn'd by one that I scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne ? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and whites 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 

2. 
Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the gTasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a ^iding-^vhip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 



And curving a contumelious lip, 
GorgonLzed me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

3. 
Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? 
For only once, in the village-street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face^ 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother^ 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 

4. 
Peace, angry spirit, and let him be i 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 

XIV. 

1. 

Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state. 
And tends upon bed and bower ; 
And thither I chmb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A Hon ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 

2. 
Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
Lights by herd:jlf, when alone 
She sits by her music and books, 



MAUD. 40) 

And her brother lingers later 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide, 

Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, 

There were but a step to be made. 

3. 
The fancy flatter'd ray mind, 
And again seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thought that she cared for me, 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 

4. 
I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep of d-^ath 

XV. 

So dark a mind within rae dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer. 
That if / be dear to some one else. 

Then some one else may have much to (ear ; 
I But if / be dear to some one else, 
j Then^I should be to myself more dear. 
Shall I not take care of all that I think, 
Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 
If I be dear. 
If I be dear to some one else. 

XVI. 

1. 
This liunp of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to seek, 

26 



402 



And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a wc«k 

But this is the day when I must speaJk, 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not ; O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

2. 
What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her word to a thing so low ? 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for me ? 
I trust that it is not so. 

3. 
Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

xvn. 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Tin the maiden yields. 

Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters fr@m her lips. 



4o:] 



Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 

1. 
I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. 
Tliere is none like her, none. 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end. 
Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 

2. 
None like her, none. 

■Dust now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 
Seem'd her light foot along the garden-walk. 
And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; 
But even then I heard her close the door. 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 

3. 
There is none like her, none. 
Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 

I In the long breeze that streams to thy^ delieigps Eas*-, 
/ Sighing for Lebanon, --— — ^' 

Dark cedar," the' tliy limbs have here increased, 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 

And looking to the South, and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate^ 



404 



And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-lim'd Eve from whom she came 

4. 
Here will I lie, while these long branches sway) 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand. 
Than nursed at ease and| brought to understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
His nothingness into man. 

6. 
But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who In this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The counter-charm of space and hollow sky, 
And do accept my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 

6. 
Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

7. 
Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 
And teach true life to fight with mortal wron^. 
O why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss. 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear." 

8. 
is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver knell 



405 



Of twelve sweet hom-s that past in bridal white, 

And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 

But now by this my love has closed her sight 

And given false death her hand, and stol'n away 

To dreamfid wastes where footless fancies dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 

Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 

My bride to be, my evermore delight, 

M^ own heart's heart and ownest own, farewell', 

It is but for a little space I go : 

And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 

Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 

Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 

Of your soft splendors that you look so bright V 

/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, 

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : 

Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 
1. 

Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

2. 
My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decRne 

And that dead man at her heart and mine ; 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die 
3. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin • 
I am sm'e I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek. 



406 



Wlien It slowly grew so thin, 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with debt : 

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within ! 

4. 
And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share her heart. 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dpng bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over the wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine fi'om her first sweet breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, fi'om birth till death, 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 

5. 
But the true blood spilt had in it a, heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond. 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something beyond., 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon-jiled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run will 
While often abroad in the fragi-ant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayei 
To be friends, to be reconciled I 

6. 
But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down, 
And at last, when each came home, 



407 



He had darken'd into a frown, 
Chid her, and foi^bid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And thjs was what had redden'd her cheftk 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

7. 
Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him. 
And says he is rough but kind. 
And wishes me to approve him. 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse. 
That he left his wine and horses and play 
Sat with her, read to he**, night and day, 
And tended her hke a nurse. 

8. 
Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spum'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That ^e plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be so i 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 

9. 
For, Maud, so tender and true, 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt. 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever I should forget. 

May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet 1 

10. 
So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 

1 feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

liat I should grow light-headed, I fe^, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Plall to-night 



408 



XX. 

1. 

Strajjge, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him, — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk anfi folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a httle lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses I 
Now I know her but in two. 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather, 
Or the frock and gipsy-bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 

2. 
But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win hex 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

3. 
A grand political dinner 
To the men of many acres, 
A gathering of the Tory, 
A dinner and then a dance 
For the maids and marriage-makert. 
And every eye but mine will glance 
At Maud in all her glory. 

4. 
For I am not invited, 
But, with the Sultan's pardon. 



409 



I am all as well delighted, 
For I know her own rose-garden, 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over ; 
And then, oh then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me. 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me, 

Saying in odor and color, "Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 

XXII. \ 

1. \ 

I Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 
2. 
For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beguining to faint in the light that she lovef 

On a bed of daflodd sky. 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 
3. 
^-All night have the roses heard 
; The flute, violin, bassoon ; 



4iU 



All night has the casement jessamine 8tirT*d 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
And a Lii:sh with the setting moon. 
4. 
I said to the lily, " There Is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
Wlien will the dancers leave her alone f 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 
5. 
i said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 
6. 
And the soul of the rose went Into my blood 

As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden-lake I stood, 

For 1 heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood 
Our wood, that Is dearer than all ; 
7. 
/'From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 
[ To the woody liollows In which we meet 
And the vallej^s of Paradise. 
8. 

I The slender acacia would not shake 
'; One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
; The white lake-blossom fell Into the lake, 
' As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sak^ 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 
9. 
Queen rose of the rosebud-garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, y 



411 



/ In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
/ Queen lily and rose in one ; 
I Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
I To the flowers, and be their sun. 
10. 
There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

(She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ; " 
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; ** 
The larkspur listens, ". I hear, I hear ; " 
And the lily whispers, " I wait.*' 
11. 
She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 
Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
., My dust would hear her and beat, 
1 Had I lain for a century dead ; 
s Would start and tremble under her feet, 
\ And blossom in purple and red. 



PART II. 



1. 

" The fault was mine, the fault was mine " — 

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ? * 

It is this guily hand ! — 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 

From underneath in the darkening land — 

What is it, that has been done ? 

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky. 

The fires of Hell brake out ©f thy rising sun, 

The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word^ 

AVhen her brother ran in his rage to~the gate, 

He came with the babe-faced lord ; 

Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 



412 



He. fieieely gave me the lie, 

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 

And he struck me, madman, over the face, 

Struck me before the languid fool, 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ; 

For front to front in an hour we stood. 

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, 

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code, 

That must have liie for a blow. 

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 

Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 

" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, " fly 1 ** 

Then glided out of the joyous wood 

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, 

A cry for a brother's blood : 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I lie 

2. 
Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 
What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet. 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall m a gentle rain, 
When they should burst and drown with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worios, 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

II. 

1. 

See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lyling close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design I 



413 



2. 
What is it ? a learned man 
Could giA^e it a clumsy name, 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same 

3. 
The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the Mttle Hving will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 

4. 
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand I 

5. 
Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear — 
Plagued with a flitting to and fi-o, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor ever arose from below. 
But only moves with the moving eye„ 
Flying along the land and the main —> 
Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle bom of the brain ? 

6. 
Back fi-om the Breton coast, 
Sick of a nameless fear. 
Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 
An old song vexes my ear ; 
But that of Lamech is iwne. 



414 



7. 
For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, forever, to part — 
But slie, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt. 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

8. 
Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
IMight drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so overwrought, 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 
Which else would have been past by ! 
And now I remember, I, 
When he lay dying there, 
I noticed one of his many rings 
(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 
It is his mother's hair. 

9. 
Who knows if he be dead ? 
Whether I need have fled ? 
Am I guilty of blood ? 
However this may be. 
Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 
'While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by, 
But speak to her all things holy and high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmfiil love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her asleep, 
Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

HI. 
Courage, poor heart of stone I 
I will not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left forever alone ; 
Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 



415 



Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 

IV. 

1. 
O THAT 't were possible 
After lono; grief and pain 
To find the arms of ^m^jtrue love 
Ro'und^e jonce jigaiR.! ._ 

2. 
\^Tien I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
IMixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 
ITian anything on earth. 

3. 
A shadow flits before me, 
Not thou, but like to thee ; 
Ah Christ, that it were possible 
For one short hour to see 
The soulsjwe^IoYed,. that they might t el! is 
What and where they be. 

' ^'^ 4. 

It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels, 

r Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sori'ow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrov?, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 

6. 
Tis a morning pure and s-sreet. 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little liowcr that chugs 



416 



To the turrets and the walls ; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet iit her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

7. 
Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head, 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cr^ 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 

8. 
Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt. 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 

9. 
Then I rise, the eavedrops fall. 
And the yellow vapore choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red baU 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

10. 
Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame. 
It crosses here, it crosses there. 
Thro' all that crowd confused and ioaii, 
The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



417 



11. 

Alas for her that met roe, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 
12. 

Would the happy spirit descend, 

From the realms of light and song, 

In the chamber or the street, 

As she looks among the blest, 

Shoidd I fear to greet my friend, 

Or to say, " Forgive the wrong," 

Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 

To the regions of thy rest ? " 
13. 

But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets, 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I long to creep 
i Into some still cavern deep, 
' There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 

V. 

1. 
Dead, long dead, 
l^ong dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust. 
And the wheels go over my head, 
And my bones are shaken with pain, 
For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat. 
Beat into my scalp and my brain. 
With never an end to the stream of passing feet. 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumlDle, and ringing and clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad. 
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? 



418 



But up and down and to and fro, 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 

2. 
Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
Tliey cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 

3. 
See, there is one of us sobbing, 
No limit to his distress ; 
And another, a lord of all things, praying 
To his own great self, as I guess ; 
And another, a statesman there, betraying 
His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 
The case of his patient — all for what ? 
To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 
And wheedle a world that loves him not, 
For it is but a world of -the dead. 

4. 
Nothing but idiot gabble ! 
For the prophecy given of old 
And then not understood. 
Has come to pass as foretold ; 
Not let any man think for the public good. 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone. 
But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house , 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told him we were there ? 

5. 
Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie \ 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp to cracl-- 
Cra(;k them now for yourself, and howl and die. 



419 



Prophet, curse me the blabbing Up, 

And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 

I know not whether he came In the Hanover ship, 

But I know that he lies and listens mute 

In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : 

Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it. 

Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! 

It is all used up for that. 

7. 
Tell him now : she is standing here at my head ; 
Not beautiful now ; not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never speaks her miiitJ 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She Is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 
StlUerj not fairer than mine. 

8. 
But I know where a garden grows. 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 
It is only flowers, they had not fruits. 
And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 

9. 
But what win the old man say ? 
He laid a cruel snare in a pit 
To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; 
Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 
For what vnU. the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse in the pit 'i 

10. 
Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



420 



11. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head, 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so Httle deeper.^/ 

VI. 

1. 
My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I c ome to be grateful at last for a little thing : 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang Hke glorious crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 
Tliat like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the u\ st, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wau - 
"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 

2. 
And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 
That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in defence of th* 

right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 
Nor Britain'h one sole God be the milHonaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore. 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 

8. 
And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 
*^ It is time, it is time, (T passionate heart," said J 



421 



(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), 

" It Is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 

That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 

With a loyal people shouting a battle-cry, 

TiU I saw the di*eary phantom arise and fly 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 

4. 
Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold. 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames. 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar ; 
And many a darkness into the light shall leap. 
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, 
And noble thought be freer under the sun. 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

5. 
Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind. 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are nobk 

still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt v/ith my native land, I am one with my kind, 
I embrace th3 purpose of God, and the doom assigi>'d. 



422 THE BROOK. 



THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

*' Here, by tins brook, we parted ; I to the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we say, 
Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf. 

When all the wood stands In a mist of green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved. 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I relisten to it, 
Prattling the primrose-fancies of the boy, 

To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he says, 

* O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 

' Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why not ? replies 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hiUs I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, 



THE BROOK. 423 

It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet, 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
, By many a field and fallow, 
(^And many a fairy foreland set 
X^With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird i 
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught 
His weary day-long chirping, like the dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. 

I wind about, and In and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

end here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one child 1 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel-wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 



424 THE niiooK. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, 
Her and lier far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, , 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Phihp's garden-gate. The gate, 
Half -parted from a weak and scolding hinge. 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, ' Run,' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine-bowers, 
A little flutter d, with her eyeUds down, 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

" Yv'hat was it ? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 
Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears. 
And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthropies, 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James ? I said. 

But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, 

And sketching with her slender-pointed foot 

Some figure like a wizard's pentagi-am 

On garden-gravel, let my query pass 

Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 

If James were coming. ' Coming every day,' 

She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain. 

But evermore her father came across 

With some long-winded tale, and broke him short : 

And James departed vext with liim and her.' 

How could I help her ? ' Would I — was it lAa-ong ? 

(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 

Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 

' O would I take her father for one hour, 

For one half-hour, and let liim talk to me 1 * 



THE BROOK. 

And even while sLe spoke, I saw* where James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet 

" Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake I 
For in J went, and eall'd old Philip out ' 

To show the farm : full willingly he rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs , 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 
* That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.' 
And there he told a long long-winded tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass. 
And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd. 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
He gave them line : and five days after that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd something more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price , 
He gave them line : and how by chance at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the baihff riding by the farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he. 
Poor fellow, could he help it ? recommenced, 
And ran thiro' all the coltish chronicle. 



426 



THE BROOK. 



Wild Will. Black Bess, Tantivy, TaUyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice as long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's door, 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Rerisen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel-covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

Ye^, men may come and go ; and these are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire. 

But unfamiliar Amo, and the dome 

Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he, 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far off, and holds her heads to other stars, 

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a style 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 
A tonsured head in miJdle age forlorn, 



THE LETTERS. 4:27 

Mused, and vri^ mnte. On a sudden a low breath 

Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 

The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings; 

And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, 

Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 

On eyes a bashful a;^ure, and on hair 

In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 

Divides threefold to show the fruit within : 

Then, wondering, ask'd her, "Are you from the farm ? " 

" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a little : pardon me ; 

What do they call you ? " " Katie." " That were strange. 

Wliat surname ? " " Willows." " No ! " " That is mi 

name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self-perplext, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dieam. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have yru not heard ? " said Katie, " we came back 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her EngHsh days. 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That ijxoet she loves to talk of, come with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
Tirk^. nh'e — you will be welcome — O, come in 1 " 



THE LETTEES. 

1. 
Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel- pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage- vow." 



428 THE LETTERS. 

2. 

I tum'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong, 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved j 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 
8. 
She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back, to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please- 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 
4. 
She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed. 
5. 
" Thro* slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst). 
And you, vv^hom once I loved so well, 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 
6. 
We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry-bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle, 

There comes a sound of marriane-beila* 



THL <;harge of tue ligut brigade. 429 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BKlGADa 



1. 
Hajlf a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Kode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
" Charge for the guns 1 " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Kode the six hundred. 

2. 
" Forward, the Light Brigiidt^ ' " 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd i 
Their's not to make reply, 
Their*s not to reason why, 
Their's but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

8. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shel^ 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Lito the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

4. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder'd: 



430 THE CIIAKGE OF THE LIGUT BRIGABR, 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ? 
Cossack and Eussian 
Reel'd from the sabre stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

6. 

Cannon to right of them,' 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them 

Voliey'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

6. 
When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made, 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble one hundred. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and highei 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn-nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flpng the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping house- 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
431 



432 ENOCH ARDEN. 

"Wliile Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Euoch would hold possession for a week: 
" This is my house and this my little wife.'* 
" Mine too," said Philip, " turn and turn about : * 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch, stronger made, 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this' 
The little wife would weep for company. 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood pas^t, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seera'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas 
And all men look'd upon him favorably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 
lie purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide. 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and smaU 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill. 
Just whers the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toAvard the hollow, saw the pair, 



EXOO 11 ARDEIV. 43 O 

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And shpt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud m merrymaking , 
Plad his dark hour unseen, and rose and past. 
Bearing a hfelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the belLj 
And merri^' ran the years, seven hap]^' years. 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers : a wish renew'd. 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathfid seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. 
And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbDr, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when ""hey lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade, 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, 



4o4 ENOCH AliDEN; 

Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 

And her he loved a beggar : then he pray*d^ 

" Save them from this, whatever comes to me.** 

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 

Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? 

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 

Sail'd fron»this port. Woald Enoch Ifeve the place ? 

And Enoch all at once assented to it, 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear d 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun. 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her 1 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself ou<" yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea twice or thrice - 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry. 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled faiherlike. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoko. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had gir< 
Her finger, Annie fought against his ^I'd: 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night ren<' vi'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cj^ied 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but iier. 
Her and her children, let her ple^id in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bovo it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old fjea-friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his h .«»♦ 
lo fit their little streetward sittuig-room 
With shelf and corner for the guods and sUiiA- 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and ai.o, 
Auger and saw, while Annie scom'd to he>'i'/ 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd a^id rang 
Till this was ended, and his caieful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having ordered aU 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till m'7jn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of iarewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie'a fears. 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself doTvrn, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Prayed for a blessing on his wife and babes 
TVT^iatever came to him: and then he said, 
"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you know it ; " 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, " and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 



485 



436 ENOCH ARDEN. 

(xod bless him, lie shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'f! 
The current of his talk to graver things, 
In sailor-fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall look on youm 
Annie, the ship I sail In passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Aimie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast ail your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
*' AVake him not ; let hlia sleep ; how should the child 
Remember this ? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 



ENOCH AllDEN. 4o7 

Tlno' all his fufure ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his wa^. 

She when the day, that Enoch mentlon'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding, " What would Enoch say ? " 
For more than once, in days of difiiculty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and tbas, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often call'd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — - 
Lik3 the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 
May be some Httle comfort ; " therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in fi-ont, 



438 ENOCH ARDEN. 

^dnsf^i. for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated Avith her gi-ief. 
Fresh from the burial of her Httle one, 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd repiy^ 
" Favor from one so sa,d and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro' 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wisk 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost; 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the Avaste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Fnoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 



ENOCH ARDEN. 439 

Hfc will repay you : money can be repaid ; 

Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd, 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she tum'd. 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school. 
And bought them needful booKs, and every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon he?, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where : and so ten years, 



440 ENOCn ARDEX. 

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children longM 
To go with others, nutting to the wood, 
And Annie would go with them ; then they beggVl 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him 
" Come with us Father Philip," he denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go. 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, " Let me rest," she said : 
So Philip rested with her, well content ; 
"While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calli'ng, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and reraember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood." 
" Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak a word. 
" Tired ? " but her face had fall'n upon her hantis , 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
" The ship was lost," he said, " the ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And Annie ejiid 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind. 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

That tho' I know not when it first came there, 

T know that it will out at last. O Annie, 

It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 

That he who left you ten long years ago 

Should still be living ; well then — let me speak 

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 

I cannot help you as I wish to do 

Unless — they say that women are so quick — 

Perhaps you know what I would have you kno^ — 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 

A father to your children : I do think 

They love me as a father : I am sure 

That I love them as if they were mine own ; 

And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 

That after all these sad uncertain years, 

We might be still as happy as God grants 

To any of BQs creatures. Think upon it : 

For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 

No burden, save my care for you and yours : 

And we have known each other all our lives. 

And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
"You have been as God's good angel in our houss 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? " 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " O," she cried. 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait awhile : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come - — ■ 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a httle ! " Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited aU my life 

1 well may wait a little.'* " Nay," she cried, 

"I am bound : you have my promise — in a year -, 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine '? " 
And Philip answer'd, " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose. 



441 



442 



ENOCH AKDEN. 



And sent h s voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gentlv, "Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." ^ 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, " I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face. 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts," he said, " be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound ■-« 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little lik a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own tinDte.'* 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them, 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 



ENOCH ARDKN, 443 

Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it (ihanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, " Mj Enoch, is he gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palm-tree." That was nothing to her 
No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried, 
* Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
" There is no reason why we sho'ild not wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, " both our sakes. 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch. 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state.. 
Being with child : but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly "died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sailed 
The si ip " Good Fortune," tho' at setting fortb 



444 ENOCH AKD£N. 

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable. 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavem 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Kich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a h.ix\ 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck. 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-li ollowing this in ^ndian fashion, fell 



ENOCH ARDEN. 445 

Sun-stricken, and tliat other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's warning, " wait.** 

The mountain wocded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to heaven. 
The slender cocoa's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world. 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seeu 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef. 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves in heavea 
The hollo wer-bello wing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things, and places, knowi? 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 
The peacock yew-tree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 



44(5 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Once likewise, m tlie ringing of his ears, 
Tho* faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of soHtude. 



Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds. 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shorts 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain-gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly Jiuman, strangely clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard: 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 
Scarce credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it : 
And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his county, or could answer him, 
If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 447 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 
And that same morning ofiicers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a home 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
E-oU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 
Thicker the di'izzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity. 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward, thinking, " Dead, or dead to mo ' *" 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 



448 EFOCfl ARDEN. 

Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Pier slow consent, and marriage, and the bir*h 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically. 
Repeated muttering, " Cast away and lost ; " 
Again in deeper inward whispers, " lost I " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him foril 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him. 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
igainst it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 



KKOCH ARDE.V. 449 

That which he better might have shuiiu'd, if grieS 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tem23t the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laughed 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her, tall and strong, 
And saying that wiiich pleased him, for he smiled= 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Staggar'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter aU the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his k3*««e 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 



450 ENOCH ARDEN. 

" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ^ 

God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That did'st uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 

A little longer I aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Htnp me not to break in upon her peace. ' 
My children too ! must 1 not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burden of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know.** 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. " This miller's wife,*' 
He said to Miriam, " that you told me of. 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? " 
"Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; " and he thought, 
"After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 

1 wait EQs time," and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to Kve. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 

That brought the stinted commerce of those dajB { 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life iu it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 



ENOCH ARDEN. 451 

When Enoch had retum'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, tiU he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro* the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hopt? 
Or Enoch thinking, "After I ain gone, 
T]ien may she learn I loved her to the last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear. 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
" Dead," clamor'd the good woman, " hear him talk ; 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
" Swear," added Enoch sternly, " on the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 
'* Know him ? " she said, " I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch ansv/er'd her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 
" My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 
My grief and soKtude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been changtid - 
I married her who mamed Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears. 
While in her heiU't she yearn'd incessantly 



452 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
Saying only, " See your bairns before you po '■ 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied. 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand, 
Willie I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that ray latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-Hfe. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it. 
And I have borne it with me all these years, 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see hinv 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating ail he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 453 

And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals. 

There came so loud a calling of the sea, 

That ail the houses in the haven rang. 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 

Crying with a loud voice, "A sail ! a sail ! 

I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Bad seldom seen a costlier fun«rsl 



454 AYLMJiE's FIELD. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 



Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pnd*- 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound ; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
SHpt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place. 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty man, 
The county God — in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family-tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his own ■— 
What loveh r of his own had he than her, 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But, "he that marries her marries her name^ 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy Jand where under the same wheel ' 
The same old rut would deepen year by )^ear ; 
Where almost all the village liad one name : 



aylmek's field. 455 

Where Aylmer follow 'd Ay liner at the Hall 

And Averill Averiil at the Rectory 

Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hail, 

Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 

Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 

That Love could bind them closer well had mads 

The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 

With horror, worse than had he heard his priest 

Preach an Inverted scripture, sons of men 

Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd it so, 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer- Averill marriage once, 
When the red rose was redder than itself, 
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to dea(ti 
" Not proven " Averill said, or laughingly 
" Some other race of Averills," — prov'n or no, 
What cared he ? what, if other or the same ? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, 
Would often, in his walks wdth Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, 
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else. 
But subject to the season or the mood, 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously made. 
And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 



456 aylmer's field, 

Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers: 
So much the boy foreran ; but when his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 
(Since Averill was a decade and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roU'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone swing 
Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it grees 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 
The petty mare's-tail forest, fairy pines 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aira'd 
All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes 
For Edith and himself: or else he forged, 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 
Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint, 
But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for coUege-tlmes 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang. 
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. ' 
And more and more, the maiden woman-growo, 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first 
The tented winter-field was broken up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland ; there again 
When burr and bine were gather'd ; lastly there 
At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth 
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 
My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them : dull and self-involved, 
Tall and erect, but bending fi:'om his height 
With half-allowing smiles for all the world, 
And mighty courteous in the main — his pride 
Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism. 



aylmer's field. 457 

Would care no more for Leolin's walking with her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 
Roaring to make a third : and how should Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, folloAv 
Such dear familiarities .of dawn ? 
Seldom, but when he does. Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace, 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself 
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpHng died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought 
About them : here was one that, summer-blanch'd. 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rose-tree, and another vs^ore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it ; this, a milky-way on earth, 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing lo the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves 
A summer-burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's everywhere . 
And Edith ever visitant with him, 



458 aylmer"8 field. 

d<e but ess loved than Edith, of her poor : 
Foi she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Kose from the clay it work'd in as she past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering' the poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themseivee 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp 
Having the warmth and muFcle of the heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true, 
Were no false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles. 
Heard the good mother softly whisper, " Bless, 
God bless 'em : marriages are made in Heaves . 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman, unannounced, 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron, " Good ! my lady's kinsman ! goo<l ? 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd, 
A.id rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
CaU'd aU her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days ; 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his lif©; 
Till Leolin, ever watchfiil of her eye, 



AYLMER'S FIELr>. 459 

Hated him wifcL a momentary hate. 

Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was be : 

I know not, for he spoke not, only shower-d 

His oriental gifts on every one 

And most on Edith : like a storm he oame, 

A.nd shook the house, and like a storm he went 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at first 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got It ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought theij* last below. 
Was cKmbing up the valley ; at whom he shot : 
Down fi^om the beetling crag to which he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger witli him, which when now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying 
" Look, what a lovely piece of workmanship ! ' 
Slight was his answer, " WeU — I care not for it ; '' 
Then plajang with the blade he prick'd his hand. 
"A gi'acious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious," ask'd the girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " " Gracious ? No," said he. 
" Me ? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
" Take it," she added sweetly, " tho' his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either ; " and lie said, 
" Why then I love it ; " but Sir Aylmer past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and n is 
They talk'd of; blues were sure of it, he thought , 



460 aylmer's field. 

Then of the latest fox — where started — kiil'd 
In such a bottom : " Peter had the brush, 
My Peter, first ; " and did Sir Aylmer know- 
That great pock-pitteu fellow had been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and down — 
" The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon hiai 
We have him now : " and had Sir Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd accent) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people talk'd — 
The boy might get a notion into him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : 
" The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences ! " 
" Good," said his friend, " but watch ! " and he, " Enough 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same night ; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side of the hearth, indignant ; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather-fan, 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd, 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her. 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands^ 
The last remaining pillar of their house. 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 



AYLMI^il's FIELD. 461 

Tbeir child." " Our child 1 " " Our heiress ! " " Ojjg I " 

for still, 
Like echoes fi'om beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, 
" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible. 
Fat as we track ourselves — I say that this — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours forever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her -«• 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken with me. 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! " These were words. 
As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after which, 
And Leohn's horror-stricken answer, " I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her. 
Never, oh never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 
Sir Aylmer, reddening from the storm within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying, 
" Boy, should I find you by my doors again. 
My men shall lash you from them like a dog ; 
Hence ! " with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool fr'om before him, and arose ; 
So, stammering " scoundrel " out of teeth that grousd 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leohn still 
Retreated haif-aghast, the fierce old man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd. 

SloAvly and conscious of the ragefiil eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous dcxnr 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land. 
Went Leoiin ; then, his passions all in flood 



462 ayi^mer's field. 

And masters of his motion, furiously 

Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran, 

And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear : 

Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed ; 

The man was his, had been his father's, friend : 

He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; 

He must have known, himself had known : besides, 

He never yet had set his daughter forth 

Here in the woman-markets of the west, 

Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 

Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him. 

" Brother, for I have loved you more as son 

Than brother, let me tell you : I myself — 

What is their pretty saying ? jilted, is it ? 

Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 

Pain*d, and, as bearing in myself the shame 

The woman should have borne, humiliated, 

I lived for years a stunted, sunless life ; 

Till after our good parents past away 

Watching your growth, I seem'd again to gro"?? 

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 

The very whitest lamb in all my fold 

Loves you: I know her: the worse thought she has 

Is whiter even than her pretty hand. 

She must prove true : for brother, where two fight 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength 

And you are happy : let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless I heiress, wealth. 
Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough was thein 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this. 
Why twenty boys and girls should marry on it, 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay, wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made 
The harlot of the cities : nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, too ! nams. 
Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; its woru? 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd, 
Darling, to-night I they must have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords. 
These partride-breeders of a thousand years. 
Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing nothing 



atlmer's field. 463 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace ! 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools, 
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! 
He had known a man, a quintessence of man, 
The liff :>f all — who madly loved — and he, 
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it I her sweet face and faith 
Held him from that: but he had powers, he knew i'. 
Back would he to his studies, make a name, 
Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in theu' graves • 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — 
" brother, I am grieved to learn your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say." 

At which, like one that sees his own excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but presentl} 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'a 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and to]<^' 
The vintage — when this Ayhner came of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his pm-pose held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her HaL. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, she promised that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her : 
He, passionately hopefuUer, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write to me ! 
They loved me, and because I love their child 
They hate me : there is war between us, deai , 
Which breaks aU bonds but ours; we must remaisi 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 



4(54: AYLMER'S FIELD. 

Poor children, for their comfort : the wind blew 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears. 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine 

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves ^ 
To learn a language known but smatteringiy 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lav/less science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That Avilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale, » 
Old scandals buried now seven decades deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died. 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he. 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise. 
Except when for a breathing-while at eve, 
Some niggard fi-actiou of an hour, he ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze. 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with air. 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin. 
Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon, 
Drove in upon the student once or twice, 
Ran a Malayan muck against the times. 
Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile. 
And fain had haled him out into the world. 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend would say 
" Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.' 
Then left aloit»3 he pluck'd her dagger forth 



aylmer's field. -l^^o 

From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, 

Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 

And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 

Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 

For heart, I think, help'd head : her- letters loo, 

Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 

liike broken music, written as she found 

Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 

Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw 

An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

Bu: they that east her spirit into flesh. 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might He within their compass, him they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals fi^om their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeoman over ale. 
And laughter to their lords : but those at home. 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier farms, 
Last from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her chee^ 
Kept color : wondrous! but, mystery I 
What amulet drew her down to that old oak, 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Eaking in that millennial touchwood-dusl 
30 



466 AYLMEli's FIKLD. 

Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, 

But scared with threats of jail and halter gave 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves betray'd ; and thef. 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 

Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his trerrure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — who mad* 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth. 
Listless in all despondence, — read ; and tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel' the rent ; and burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scora 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scattered all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden child. 
After much wailing, hush'd Itself at last 
Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain himself— 
Air would be well — the lover heeded not. 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place. 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt. 
Raging return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
TVatch'd even there ; and one was set to wat(^h 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly. 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that one kis? 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 



AYLMERS FIELD. 

Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then ensued 
A martin's summer of his faded love, 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly lost, 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 
La.st, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house, 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — 
Save Christ as vre believe him — found the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of fire, 
Where careless of the household faces near. 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? 
So, — fi'om afar, — touch as at once ? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named his nixmt 
Did the keen shriek, "Yes, love, yes, Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen fi^om sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ; 
And bemg much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home, 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood : 
" From Edith " was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averil went and gazed upon his death 
And when he came again, his flock believed — 
Beholding how the years which are not Time's 



467 



468 AYLMER'8 FIELD. 

Had blasted him — that many thousand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the fii-it 
And being used to find her pastor texts.. 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him 
'i b speak before the people of her child, 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose 
Autumn's mock-sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burden of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chiird at once : but every roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 
And double death were widely murmur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove. 
Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either gi-ave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, 
f:Iis face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse, " Behold, 
¥our house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed, half frighted all his flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart 
/Igainst the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, 
And all but those who knew the living God — 
Eight that were left to make a purer world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wro!u:hf 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest ■•' 
* Qfosh thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal, 



ayxmer's field. 469 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 

For Avith thy worst self hast thou clothe<l thy God 

Then came a Lord in no Avise like to Baal. 

The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 

Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts i -- 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage 

Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 

Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 

And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawn?, 

And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 

And title-scrolls and gorgeous herakh-ies. 

In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for Mm ; for thine 

Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 

Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 

The deathless ruler of thy dying house 

Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 

And tho' thou numberest with the followers^ 

Of One who cried, " Leave all and follow me/' 

Thee therefore with His light about thy feet. 

Thee with His message ringing in thine ears, 

Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord fi-om Heaven, 

Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 

Wonderful, Prince of Peace, the Mighty God, 

Count the more base idolater of the two ; 

Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 

Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke, 

The blight of low desires — darkening thine own 

To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, 

Thy better born unhappily fi:om thee, 

Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair — 

Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 

By those who most have cause to sorrow for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of com. 

Fair as the angel that said, " Hail," she seem'd, 

Who entering fiU'd the house with sudden light. 

For so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of heaven 

Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway ? whose the bat;»f 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 

Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child of shame, 

The common care whom no one cared for, leapt 

To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, 



470 AYLMER'S FIELD. 

As with the mother he had never known, 
In gambols ; for her fresh and Innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into Nature's music when they saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowofs 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth I 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not ? 
One burden and she would not lighten it ? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, 
How sweetly would she glide between your wraths 
And steal you from each other 1 for she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also knew. 
^ Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first ; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt. 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame ] 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, 
' My house is left unto me desolate.' " 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; but some 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowlM 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, 
Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldierlike. 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his faca 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; 
And " O pray God that he hold up," she thought 
" Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 



aylmer's field. 471 

"Nor yours the blame — for who beside yourhearthi 
Can take her place — if echoing me ycu c^y, 
' Our house is left unto us desolate ? ' 
But thou, O thou that killest, had'st thou known, 
O thou that stonest, had'st thou undei'stood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours I 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste, ' Repent ' ? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in the broad. 
Cries, ' Come up hither,' as a prophet to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers. 
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven- 
But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek, 
Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 
To inflame the tribes : but there — out yonder — earti 
Lightens from her own central HeU — O there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast. 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and CA^er-murder'd France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering wolf, 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those 
Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes 
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all i 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it : 
O rather pray for those and pity them. 
Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — 
Who broke the bond which they desired to break, 
Which else had link'd their race with times tc come — 



472 aylmek's fieli>. 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter "in their hall 
Forever and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 'Beliold 
Your house is left unto you desolate ' ? " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more , 
Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed them now, 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, 
Wifelike, her hand In one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, foUow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finlals till he touch'd the door , 



SEA DREAMS. 47- 

Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot sUKxi 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, 
The childless mother went to seek her child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the changa 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring forever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was " desolate ; " 
Dead for two years before his death was he ; 
But when the second Christmas came, escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tencfer hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken down. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms ; 
And where the two contrived their daughter's g(K<% 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run. 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea 
For which his gains were dock'd, however small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work ; besides, 
Their slender household fortunes (for the man 
Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift. 



474 SEA DREAMS. 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : 

Aad oft, when sitting all alone, his face 

Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, 

And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue 

To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, 

All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, ^ 

At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, 

The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, 

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 

Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, 

Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 

Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 

For sideways up he swung his arms, and shrlek'd, 

" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 

Were that great Angel ; '' thus with violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 

Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 

Sat shudd^jrlng at the ruin of a world , 

He at his own : but when the wordy storm 

Had ended, forth they came and paced the shoie 

Ran In and out the long sea-framing caves. 

Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed 

(The sootflake of so many a summer still 

Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 

So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, 

Lingering about the thymy promontories. 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 

And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed 

Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 

" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," 

Said, " Love, forgive him " : but he did not speak , 

And silenced by that silence lay the wife. 

Remembering her dear Lord who died for all. 

And musing on the little lives of men, 

And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost ro< k* 
Touching, upjetted In spirts of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled In sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 



SEA DREAMS. 475 

Dead claps of thunder tvom within the cliflS 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 
Their Margaret, cradled near them, wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
"A wreck, a wreck 1 " then turn'd, and groaning, said, 

" Forgive I How many will say ' forgive, and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer 1 No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first ? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. 
Ah, love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes • 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him. 
Said, ' Trust him not ; * but after, when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all, 
All my poor scrapings fi-om a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd 1 the sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

" Not fearfiil ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? " 

" yes," he said, " I drei?* i 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I fi'om out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 
I thought tlie motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, 
' To live in ! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave. 



476 SEA DREAMS. 

Bright with the sim upon the stream beyond ; 
And near the light a giauL woman sat, 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that sings ; 
And here the night-light flickering in my eyes 
Awoke nie." 

*' That was then your dream," she said, 
" Not sad, but sweet." 

*' So sweet, I lay," said he, 
"And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 
' It came,' she said, * by working in the mines : * 

then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder ; and we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hiU 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top 

She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass. 

That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me. 

Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 

In sunshine : right across its track there lay, 

Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 

Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 

To think that in our often-ransack'd world 

Still so much gold was left ; and then I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splinter q-\ it, 

And fearing waved my arm to warn tJ- 'rm off; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

(I thought I could have died to save it) neai'd, 

Touch'd, chnk'd, and clash'd, and vanlsh'd, and I wok*j, 

1 heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 

My dream was Life ; the woman honest Work : 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 



SEA DREAMS. 477 

" Nay,'"* said the kindly wife to comfort him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down and bniko 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it ; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your dreara ; 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband ; " yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the books i 
He dodged me with a long and loose account. 
* The books, the books I' but he, he could not wait, 
Bound on a matter he of life and death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me well ; 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' My dearest fi-iend, 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,' snid he ; 
'And all things work together for the good 
Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went 
I stood like one that had received a blow : 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul ? " said the good wife 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love. 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his fi-iend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 
A silent court of justice in his breast. 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : 
And that drag's down his life : then comes what com^ 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant. 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one eye askew ' -- 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn 



478 



SEA DflEAMS. 

A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his ^eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain ; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible-meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy, oily best. 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself had thriven/ 
How like you this old satire ? " 

" Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those cliff" 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, 
But huge cathedral-fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, 
One after one : and then the great ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to mrfsic : ever when it broke, 



SEA DREAMS. 479 

The statues, king or saint, or founder, fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round, 
Some crying, " Set them up ! they shall not fall 1 " 
And othei-s, " Let them lie, for they hare faU'n." 
And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crovrd 
Broke, mixt with awful hght, and show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up on one of those dark minster-fi-onts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — but what are dreams 'i 
Yours came but from ihe breaking of a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

" Child ? No 1 " said he, " but this tide's roar, and hi& 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of doom, 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about. 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True,' indeed 1 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ; 
While you were running d^wn the sands, and made 



480 SEA DREAMS. 

The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, 

Good man, to please the child. She brought strange newR 

Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ? 

I had set my heart on your forgiving him 

Before you knew. We must forgive the dead." 

" Dead 1 who is dead ? " 

" The man your eye pui-sued 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.'* 

" Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had h* 
To die of? deadl" 

''Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too. 
And if he did that wrong you charge him with, 
llis angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ? ' well then, sleep. 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'i? 
The cradle, while she sang this baby-song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer. 
Till the little wings are stronger 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 



THE GRANDMOTUER. 481 

Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

'' She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep thaa oui-s. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder 1 " 

Then the man^ 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for tliis one night be sound : 
I do forgive him ! " 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. 



THE GRANDMOTHER 

I. 

And Willy, my eldest-bom, is gone, you say, little Annie ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a 

man. 
And WillVs wife has written : she never was overwise, 
Never the wife for Willy : lie would n't take my advice. 

IL 

For, Annie, you see, lier father was not the man to save, 
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh 1 — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say, is 
gone. 

in. 

Willy, niy beauty, my eldest-bom, the flower of the flock ; 
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock, 
•'Here 's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; and ha 

would be bound, 
Tliere was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 
31 



482 THE GRANDMOXnER, 

rv, 

tJtiWkg A ais hands, and strong on his legs, but still of hia 

tobg je ! 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so 

young 
I cannot cry fu* him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall /ee him the sooner, for he lived idv away. 

V. 

Why do you lt»o& at me, Annie ? you think ] am hard and 

cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew 

right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not 

tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little 

liar! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue 

is a fire. 

VIII. 
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said 

likewise. 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought mth 

outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and 

a day ; 
And all things look'd half dead, tho' it was the middle of 

May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean- 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 483 

X. 

And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening 

late 
[ cllm'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at 

the gate. 
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the 

nightingale. 

XI. 
All of a sudden he stopt : there past by tjie gate of the 

farm, 
Willy, — he did n't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there 's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry 

now. 

XII. 
Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he 

meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtsey and went. 
And I said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it '11 all be 

the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

XIII. 

And he tum'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet 

moonshine : 
** Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is 

mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." 

XIV. 

" Marry you, Willy I " said I, " but I needs must speak my 

mind, 
And I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard and 

unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, 

" No, love, no ; " 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 

And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers 

a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 



484 THE GRAXDMOXnKR. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 
There lay the sweet Uttle body that never had drawn a 

breath. 
I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife ; 
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought 

for his life. 

XYII. 
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 
I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been m 

vain. 
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before 

he was born. 

XVIII. 
But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me 

nay: 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his 

way: 
Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd 

BO near. 

XIX. 
But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could 

have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten yeare back, or more, if I don't' forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the 

hill. 

XXI. 
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to 

their team : 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

XXII. 

And yet I know for <« truth, there 's none of them left alive 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 485 

And Willv, 111/ eldest-bom, at nigh threescore and ten : 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 

XXIII. 
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve . 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I 
l find myself often laughing at things that have lono- gone 

by. 

XXIV. 

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine Is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when hfe shall 

cease ; 
4 nd in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace- 

XXV. 
Ind age is a time of peace, so it be free from pam, 
i4.nd happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 

i seem to he tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest ; 

Only at j«ur age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

XXVI. 

So Willy ^as gone, my beauty, my eldest-bom, my flower ; 
But how c^n i weep for WiUy, he has but gone for an hour, — 
Bone for a nilmite, my son, from this room into the next ; 
'i, too, sh^ ^o iii a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 

XXVII. 

Ind Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise. 
*^et rne my glasi. 2s, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes, 
rhf^ is but a vriflvi left you, when I shall have past away. 
Bat stay with the old th omat now : you cannot have loBg 
to stay. 



486 TITH0NU8. 



hthonus. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, ' 

The vapors weep their burden to the grouni), 

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneatk 

And "after many a smumer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortahty 

Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever silent spaces of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wilis, 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with teara 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all r 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 



TITHONUS, 



487 



Thy clieek begins to redden thro* the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes. 
And beat the twihght into flakes of fire. 

{TjO ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence,' then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. 
In days far off, on that dark earth, be true ? — 
"■ The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 
In days far off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 
The dim curls kindle int^ sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my bloofi 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, gTOwing dewy-warm 
/^^ith kisses balmier than half-openings buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, < 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
WhiLe Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Ai-e all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy ghmmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the hom^ 
Of happy men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And theo returning on thy silver wheels. 



488 



THE VOYAGE. 



THE VOYAGE, 

I. 

We left behind the painted buoy- 
That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 

And madly danced our hearts with joj^ 
As fast we fleeted to the South : 

How fresh was every sight and sound 
On open main or winding shore I 

We knew the merry world was round, 
And we might sail for evermore. 

n. 

Warm broke the breeze against the brow, 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill sSlt, and sheer'd the g^M 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 

And swept behind : so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel. 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 

HI. 

How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Agaii we dash'd into the dawn ! 

IV. 
New stars all night above the brim 
- Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



THE VOYAGE. 489 

V. 

The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen. 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless East we drove, 
Wliere those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 
VI. 
By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brinf 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 
VII. 
O hundred shores of happy climes, 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers 
VIII. 
For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and nightj 
And still we follow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, " O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 
IX. 
And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fah 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the se^ 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



490 J^ THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

X. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — lie was seldom pleased i 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
"A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept ' 
Ajid overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 
XL 
And never sail of ours was furl'd. 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

B«t laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter-gale ? 

xn. 

Again to colder climes we cam_e, 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 

Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 

All along the valley while I walk'd to-day. 

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; 

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, 

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, 

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 



REQUIE8CAT. 491 



THE FLOWEB, 

Once In a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and toweri 

Till all the people criec^, 
" Splendid is the flower.'' 

Mead my little fable : 
He that runs may read, 

Host can raise the flowers noi&j 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough. 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



EEQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place. 

Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glid^ 
It sees itself from thatch to base 

Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of hfe this hour may ccaee. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR EOT. 

^E rose at dawn and, fired with hop€), 
Shot o'er t.he seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope* 
And whistled to the morning-star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 

In caves about the dreary bay, 
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death Is sure 

To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ; * 

My father raves of death and wreck. 

They are all to blame, they are all to blame. 
492 



THE ISLET. 



493 



" God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse than any death to mo." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or so," 
The sweet little wife of the singer said. 
On the day that follow'd the day she was wed 
" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go ? " 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash, 
Singing, "And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash. 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know^ 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with m)Ttle and clad 'with vine. 
And ovei-stream'd and silverj-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of pahn and pine." 

" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no 1 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, 
There is but one bird with a musical throat, 
And his compass is but of a single note, 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

** Mock me not ! mock me not I love, let us go * 



494 THE RINGLET. 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



THE RINGLET. 

" Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden-gay, 
If you will give me one, but one, 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
" Tlien take it, love, and put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 

2. 
" My ringlet, my ruiglet, 

That art so golden-gay, 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and this. 
That a doubt will only come for a kisa, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" Then kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 

II. 

O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 

And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
You still are golden-gay. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDUA. 495 

But Kinglet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray: 
For what is this which now I *m told, 
I that took you for true gold, 
She that gave you 's bought and sold, 
Sold, sold. 
2. 
O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by ; 
If this can change, why so can i," 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie, 
You golden lie. 
3. 
Ringlet, Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame, 
For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame, 
So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I doom you to the flame. 
For what is this which now I leam 
Has given all my faith a turn ? 
Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, bum. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter fi'om over the sea, 

Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street I 
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 
Scatter the blossom under her feet 1 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers 1 



496 A DEDICATION. 

Make music, O bird, In the new-budded bowem ' 
Blazon your mottos of blessing and prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers 1 
Flames, on the windy headland flare 1 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air I 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire 1 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the throne, 
Come to us, love us, and make us your own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
;'Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near, and true — no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore • 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this and pray that he, 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, hke the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.* 

* The fruit of the Spindle-tree (Euonymus Eurqpceus). 



BOADICl&A. 

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and 

Druldess, 
Far in the East Bo'adicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volu- 
bility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony C^mu- 

lodiine, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild con- 
federacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbar- 
ous populaces, 

Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me sup- 
plicating ? 

Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be 
supplicated ' 

Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 

Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate 
us? 

Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering ? 

Bark an answer, Britain's raven 1 bark and blacken innu- 
merable, 

Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a 
skeleton, 

Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolf kin, from the wilderness, 
wallow in it, 

32 497 



498 BOADICEA. 

Till tbe face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 

Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camulodiine ! 

There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous 
adversary. 

There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous em- 
peror-idiot. 

Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Ciis- 
sivelaiin 1 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard It, Icenian, O 

Coritanian 1 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Tn- 

nobant. 
These have told us all their anger In miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fii^e in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy 

massacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses 

and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuar)' , 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down theii 

statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulo- 
diine, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to b( 

pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with It as an infant ? shall we dandle it 

amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trmo- 
bant ! 

While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 

Ihere I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical cere- 
mony, 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophet- 
esses. 

' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets 1 

Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering 
enemy narrow thee. 

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the 
mighty one yet 1 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thire the deeds to be 
celebrated, 



BOADICfiA 499 

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimit- 
able, 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Para- 
dises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle- 
thunder of God.' 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguriea 
happier ? 

Sc iLej chanted in the darkness, and there cometL 'a victory 
now. 

" Hear Icenlan, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Triao- 
bant ! 

Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty. 

Me they seized and me they tortm^ed, me they lash'd and 
humiliated, 

Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 

See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy I 

Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated 

Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiine ! 

There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourish- 
ing territory. 

Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Brit- 
oness — 

Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexor- 
able. 

Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 

Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry preciptiously 

Like the leaf in a roaring whii-lwind, like the smoke in a 
hurricane whirl'd. 

Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ciinobe- 
line ! 

There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of 
ebony lay, 

Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 

There they dwelt and their rioted ; there — there — they 
dwell no more. 

Bui-st the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of 
the statuary, 

Take the hoary Boman head and shatter it, hold it abom- 
inable, 

Cut the Boman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, 

Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humili- 
ated, 



500 IN QUANTITY. 

Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the 

little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trimpie 

them under us." 

So the Queen Bo'adicca, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness- 
like, 
Yeird and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce 

volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous Unea- 

ments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in 

January, 
Roar'd as when the rolhng breakers boom and blanch on 

the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a prom- 
ontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unani- 
mous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Kan the land with Koman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legion- 
ary. 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam., Caiuu 
lodiine. 



m QUANTITY, 
MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth'd in entor of harmonies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel. Abdiel, 



TRANSI-ATION FROM THE ILIAD. 501 

Stajr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazlly murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Wliere some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



Hendecasyllabics, 

O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion. 

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, 

Lest I fall unawares before the people, 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome, 

AU that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — ' 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAE 
IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host ' 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke. 
And each beside his chariot bound his r)wn ; 



502 'i'ii^ CAPTAIN. 

And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far Into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge * of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 
As when In heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid. 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.f 

Iliad 8. 542-561 



THE CAPTAIN. 
A LEGEND OF THE xVAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew. 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood 

• Or, ridge. 

\ Or more literally — 

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeda 
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morn. 



THE CAPTAIN. 503 

Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came 
So they passed by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd. 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
** Chase," he said ; the ship flew forward. 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken - - 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying. 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 
For his noble name. 



504 THE CAPTAIN. 



With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confoundeiL 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded, 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error I fearful slaughter I 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not sa^a 
There let the wind sweep and the plover ciy ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



My life Is full of weary days. 

But good things have not kept aloof, 
Kor wandered into other ways : 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof. 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shaU know 
Thy voice, and answer from b^ilow. 



TUKKE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 505 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand, 

And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, 

And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ; 

And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When sleep had bound her in his rosy band, 

And chased away the still-recurring gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less, 

For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 

Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 

A nobler yearning never broke her rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment : 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went. 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 

The phantom of a wish that once could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love, 
ind if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, 

She still would take the praise, and care no mon 



Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast 

Of those dead lineaments that near^ thee lie ? 
O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past. 

In painting some dead friend from memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can last : 

His object lives : more cause to weep have I ; 
&Iy teara, uo tears of love, are flowing fast, 

No tears of love, but teai-s that Love can die. 



506 



ON A MOURNER. 



I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, 
i5ut breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 

Which some green Christmas crams with weary tones 



SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands : 
Now thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to nis hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow, 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and tbee. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with spears. 
They brought him home at even-fall : 

All alone she sits and hears 
Echoes in his empty hall, 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field. 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance. 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow.'^ 



ON A MOURNER. 

Nature, sq far as in her lies. 
Imitates God, and turns her face 

To every land beneath the skies. 

Counts nothing that she meets with ba»e 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



ON A MOURNER. 507 

2. 

Fills out the homely quickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 

The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe. 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 



And on thy heart a finger lays. 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime.'* 

4. 

And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 

5. 

And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and brida, 
From out the bordei*s of the morn. 
With that fair child betwixt them bom. 

6. 

And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 

Comes Faith from tracts no feet have tto^ 
And Virtue, like a household god 

7. 

Promising empire ; such as those 

That once at dead of night did gre«t 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



508 ODE ox TUE DEATH OF 



ODE ON THE DEATH 

OF 

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 

1. 

Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a might/ nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

2. 
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplor e ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round hif hones for evermore. 

3. 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long, long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

4. 
Mom'n, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time. 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 509 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more 

5. 
All is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toU'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 
There he shall rest forever 
Among the wise and the bold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 
And a reverent people behold 
The towering car, the sable steeds : 
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll 'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volle^dng cannon thunder his loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-ringing avenues of song. 



510 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 



Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with pri€«$ 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 

Mighty seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous maa, 

The greatest sailor since our world begaL 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 

O give him welcome, this is he 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

And worthy to be laid by thee ; 

For this is England's greatest son, 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun ; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and wod 

And underneath another sun, 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 

Wliere he greatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarm?. 

Back to France with countless blows. 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Byyond tlie Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wia^'^Sf 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty's Iron crown 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler do^^Ts; 



TIJE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 511 

A day of onsets of despair I 

Dasb'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Thro' the long-tonnented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overtlirew 

So great a soldier taught us there, 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo ' 

Mighty seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he fi'om taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In fidl acclaim, 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo oi' all human fame, 

A people's voice, Avhcn they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 

7. 
A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget, 
Jonfused by brainless mobs and lawless Powej^ ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till pubhc wrong be crumbled into dust. 



512 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent In your council-hall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lour 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who spok*. i 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
"Whose hfe was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named :, 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 
8. 
Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bureting 
Into glossy purples, which out-redden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-storj?, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands. 



THE DUKK OF WKM.INGTON'. 



513 



On with toil of heart* and knees and hands. 
Thro' the long gorc^e to the far light has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
,1 Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done, 
But while the races of mankind endure, JT/ '-''- 
Let his gi-eat example stand .,. ,- .; 

Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure , 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : .' 
And let the land whose hearths he saved fi:-om siiam* 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And when the long-illumined cities flame, 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and b-aia 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain I 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Wliom we see not we revere, 

We revere, and we refi-ain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memoi'ies all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

Hie tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 



514 THE DAISY. 

There miist be Other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Mak '■ and break, and work their will ; 

Tho' world on world in myi'iad myriads roll 

Roun ' us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours. 

What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 

HLish, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tear? 

The black earth yawns : the mortal disappeai-s ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so gi'eat. — 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 

Something far advanced in state. 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown. 

Lay your earthly fancies down, 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 

1852. 



THE DAISY. 

WEITTBN AT EDtNBUEGH. 

' O LOVE, what hours were thine and ivAne, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. ) 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, oy the mountain-road ; 

How hse a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little iNlonaco, basking, glow'd. 



THE DAISY. 

How riclilj down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaniinj^ fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beacher 
A milky-bell'd amarylhs blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain-cornjc© 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most« 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold 
Those niched shapes of noble moald, 
A princely people's awfiil princes, 
Tlie grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Cascin'te. 
Or walkf n Boboii's ducal bowers. 



515 



516 THE DAISY. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete 
Of tower or duonio, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress-avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glor? 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires I 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 

To Como ; shower and storm and blast 

Had blown the lake beyond his limit., 
And all was flooded ; and how we ps^t 

From Oomo, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for hall' the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, aD the way. 

Like ballad-burden music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Oueen Theodolind. where we slcDt ; 



THE DAISY. 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 

The moonlight touching o'er a terracfl 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

"V\rhat more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crpng is a cry for gold: 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 

This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by ; 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earti^ 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Pei-chance, to charm a vacant brain, 

Perchance, to dream you still beside ms- 
My fancy fled to the South agaja. 



517 



518 TO THE REV. V. D, MAURICE. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 

Whc give the Fiend himself his due, 

Should eighty thousand college-councils 
Thunder "Anathema," fi-iend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you wekjomf 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far fi^om noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

t or groves of pine on either hand, 
T'o break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 

Wh.ere, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on thro' zones of light and shador? 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 



019 



Or whether war's avenghig rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rune, or spongy-wet ; 

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for mciny, 
Many and many a happy year. 
January, 1854. 



WILL. 

1. 
O WELL for him whose will is strong ! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : 
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, 
Who seems a promontory of rock. 
That, compass'd round with turbulent sounl^ 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock. 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

2. 
But ill for him who, bettering not with time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Wili 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime, 
Or seeming-genial venial fault, 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 
Toiling in immeasurable sand, 
And o'er a weary sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing vault. 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



520 NORTHERN FAKMEE- 



NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE. 
I. 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin* 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse ? thoort nowt o* a noorse : whoy, Doctor's abean &n 

agoan : 
Says that I moant *a naw moor yaale : but I beaLt a fool : 
Git ma my yaale, for I beant a-gooln' to break my rule. 

IL 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what *s nawways true . 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've *ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 

III. 

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o* my bed. 

" The amoighty 's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a 

said, 
An* a towd ma my sins, an 's tolthe were due, an' I gied it 

in bond ; 
I done my duty by un, as I *a done by the lond. 

IV. 
Larn'd a ma* bea, I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to lam. 
But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's bam. 
Thof a knaws I hallus voiited wi' Squoire an' choorch fm 

staate. 
An* i* the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate . 

V. 

An* I hallus corned to *s choorch afoor moy Sally wui dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock * owei 

my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad sum- 

mut to saay. 
An T thowt a said whot a owt to *a said an* I comed awaay 

• Cockchafer. 



NORTHERN FARMKR. 521 

VI. 

Bess}'- Marris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt 'a bei-in, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understot d ; 
I done my duty by un as I *a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 
" The amoighty 's a taakin' o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 

*ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aaste : 
But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thorn aby 

waaste. 

VIII. 
Tfya. moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not 

born then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-bump,* for I 'eerd un aboot an' aboot, 
But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled un 

oot. 

IX. 
Reaper's it wur; fo' they fun un theer a-laaid on 'is faace 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies f afoor I corned to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toner 'ed shot un as dead as a naiiiL 
Na'aks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my 

yaale. 

X. 
Dubbut looak at the waaste : theer warn't not fead for a cow • 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 
Wamt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' fead, 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in sead. 

XL 
Nobbut a bit on it *s left, an* I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at 

fan, 

Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' aii, 
If godamoighty an* parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan. 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o* raj; 
oan. 

XII. 
Do godamoightj knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' meii ? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea : 
An* Squoire 'uU be sa mad au' all — a' dear a' dear ! 
And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaehnas thirty yean 

* Bittern. f Anemones. 



522 NORTHERN FARMER. 

XIII. 

A. mowt *a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a *aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Kobins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi *auf the cows to cauve an* Thomaby holms to plow I 

XIV. 
Looiik *ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by, 
Says to thessen naw doot " what a mon a bea sewer-ly I " 
For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a corned to 

the 'All ; 
I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by aU. 

XV. 

Squoire 's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'uli 'a to wroite, 
For who *s to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma 

quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Neither a moan^ to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 

XVI. 
But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' 

steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the bleissed fealds wi' the Divil's oan 

team. 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet. 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it 

XVII. 
What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaale ? 
Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a 

floy; 
Oit ma my yaale I tell tha, an* gin I mun doy I mua doy. 



KOKTHERN FARilER. 52o 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

NEW STYLE. 
I. 

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaiiy ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for thj 

paains j 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains. 

n. 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi* tha, Sam : yon's parson's 

'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a 

mou.se ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou'll be tv/enty to weeak.* 
Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear mysen speak. 

m. 

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she bean a tellin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' parson's 

lass — 
Noa — thou'll marry fur luvv — an' we boiith on us thinks tha 

an ass. 

IV. 

Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's-daay — they was ringing 

the bells. 
She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells. 
Them as 'as munny an' ail — wot's a beauty ? — the flower as 

blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 

• This week. 



524 NORTHERN FARMER. 

V. 

Dopant be stunt : * taake time : I knaws what maakes tha sa 

mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this : 
" Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is ! " 

VI. 

An' I went wheer munny war : an' thy mother coora to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty : — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant 
nowt? 

VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle t her bread : 
Why ? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant nivir git naw 

'igher ; 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shii-e. 

VIII. 

And thin *e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o*** Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi'Jnoan to lend 'im a 

shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd % yowe : fur, Sammy, 'e married 

fur luvv. 

IX. 

Luv% ? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny 

too, 
IMaakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by ? 
Naay — fur I luw'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason 
why. 

* Obstinate. f Earn. 

X Or I'ow-welter'd — gaid of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 525 

X. 

Ay, an' thy muther 8a}'« thou wants to marry the iass, 
Cooms of a gentleman bui-n : an' we boath on us thinks tha 

an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — ari ass as near as mays 

nowt — * 
Woii then, wiltha .^^ dangtha! — the bees is as fell as out.f 

XL 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'eiid, lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins an' 

pence ? 
Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 

XII. 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals. 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 

XIII. 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastwaays 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a goou un, 'e did. 

XIV. 
Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill! 
Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs up to the mill ; 
An' I'll run up to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un, I'll leave the land to thee. 

XV. 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave tiie land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Pro])utty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay. 

* Makes nothing. I The flies are as fierce as anything'. 



026 THE VICTIM. 



THE VICTIM. 



I. 



A PLAGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them brake the sudden foe j 
So thick they died the people cried 

"The Gods are moved against the land 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us r* 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life." 

II. 

Biit st^J the foeman spoil'd and burn'd, 

And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame . 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd 
TLl at last it seem'd that an answer caa;* 
" The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life.** 



THS VICTIM. 



III. 



The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 

The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 

His beauty still with his years increasfd. 
His face v^as ruddy, his hair was gold, 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
" The Gods have answer'd : 
We give them the boy." 

IV. 

The King return'd from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said : " They have taken the chii^ 

To spill his blood and heal the land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 

And blight and famine on all the lea : 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or 1, the wife "" " 

V. 

The King bent low, with hand on brew, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
" O wife, what use to answer now ? 

For now the Priest has judged for me." 
The King was shaken with holy fear ; 

" The Gods," he said, " would have chosen well j 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 

And which the dearest I cannot tell ! " 



528 



But the Priest was happy. 
His victim won : 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son ! " 

VL 

The rites prepared, the victim bared, 

The knife uprising toward the blow, ' 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no ! " 
He caught her away with a sudden cry \ 

Suddenly from him brake his wife, 
And shrieking " /am his dearest, I — • 
/ am his dearest ! " rush'd on the kniff^ 
And the Priest was happy, 
" O, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the wife \ " 



WAGES. 

Gl-ORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea —« 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the ^'ages of Virtue be dust, 
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the wornj 
and the fly ? 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 529 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the 

plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreains ? , 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 

For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel " I am I ! " 

Glory about thee, without thee : and thou fulfillest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can q lu^ 

meet — / ^s'" 

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. • i -^ ^ 

God is law, say the wise, O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot 

see; 
B ut if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ?i 



Flower in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies j — 
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 
Little flower — but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is. 
84 



jnii^ 



530 



LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLlA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for when the morning flush 

Of passion and the first embrace had died 

Between them, tho' he loved her none the less, 

Yet often when the woman heard his foot 

Keturn from pacings in the field, and ran 

To greet him with a kiss, the master took 

Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 

Half buried in some weightier argument, 

Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 

To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher whom he held divine. 

She brook'd it not 5 but wrathful, petulant, 

Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witcTi 

Who brew'd the philter which had power, they said. 

To lead an errant passion home again. 

And this, at times, she mingled with his drink, 

And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked broth 

Confused the chemic labor of the blood, 

And ticklhig the brute brain within the man's, 

Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'a 

His power to shape : he loath'd himself ; and cnc-s 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock' d liim with returning calm, and cried : 

" Storm in the night ! for thrice I heard the ram 
Kushing ; and once the flash of a thunderbolt — 
Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it. 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreamal 
For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance 



LUCRETIUS. 531 

We do but recollect the dreams that come 

Just ere the waking : terrible ! for it seem'd 

A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds 

Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom-streams 

And torrents of her myriad universe, 

Ruining along the illimitable inane, 

Fly on to clash together again, and make 

Another and another frame of things 

Forever: that was mine, my dream, I knew it 

Of and belonging to me, as the dog 

With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 

His function of the woodland : but the next ! 

I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 

Came driving rainlike down again on earth, 

And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang 

No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 

For these I thought my dream would show to me, 

But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 

Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 

The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 

Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. 

And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me dxove 

In narrowing jircles till I yell'd again 

Half sufFoc?ited, and sprang up, and saw — 

Was it the fii'st beam of my latest day ? 

" Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the breasts, 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed 
At all that beauty : and as I stared, a fire. 
The fire that left a. roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke. 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine. 
Because I would not one of thine own doves. 
Not even a rose, were oS"er'd to thee ? thine. 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field, 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity ? 



532 LUCRETIUS. 

" Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these 
Angers thee most, or angera thee at all ? 
Not if thou be'st of those who far aloof 
From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn, 
Live the great life which all our greatest fain 
Would follow, centr'd in eternal calm. 

" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like ourselves 
Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. 

" Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant not her. 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears ; 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow forth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes through the thick bloc^ 
Of cattle, and light is large and lambs are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers. 
Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. 

" The Gods ! and if I go my work is left 
Unfinished — if 1 go. The Gods, who haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world, 
Where never creeps i cloud, or moves a wind. 
Nor ever falls the least whi.te star of snow.. 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm ! and such, 



LUCKHTIUS. 533 

Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 

Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 

Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods ! 

If all be atoms, ho w then should the Gods 

Being atomic not be dissokible, 

Not follow the great law ? My master held 

That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 

I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 

Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 

Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 

That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant F 

1 have forgotten what I meant : my mind 

Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 

" Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched man, 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter ; tales ! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he what he sees ; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragranee, slowiy lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb iato the windy halls of heaven : 
And here he glances on an eye new-born, 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last : 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen 
And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles are no more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself. 
Or lend an ear to Plato w-here he says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit the post 
Allotted by the Gods : bu(t he that holds 
The Gods are careless, where&>re need he care 



534 



Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 

Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life, 

And wretched age — and worst disease of all, 

These prodigies of myriad nakednesses. 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every dish, 

The phantom husks of something foully done, 

And fleeting thro' the boundless universe, 

And blasting the long quiet of my breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity. 

" How should the mind, except it loved tnem, clasf 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, and throng their rags and they, 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the land ? 

" Can I not fling this horror ofi" me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile, 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm, 
At random ravage? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough. 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, ay, and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men. 

" But who was he, that in the garden snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods ? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself— 
For look ! what is it ? there ? yon arbutus 
Totters j a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering - 
The mountain quickens int3 Nymph and Faun> 
And here an Oread — how the sun delights 



535 



To glance and shift about her slippery sides, 

And rosy knees and supple roundedness, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this way runs 

Before the rest — A satjT, a satyr, see — 

Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; 

Twy-natured is no nature : yet he draws 

Nearer and nearer, and 1 scan him now 

Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 

That ever butted his rough brother-brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender : 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and she 

Loathes him as well ; such a precipitate heel. 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing. 

Whirls her to me : but Avill she fling herself, 

Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoot : nay. 

Hide, hide them, milHon-myrtled wilderness. 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! do I wish — 

What? — that the bush were leafless? or to whe.iii 

All of them in one massacre ? O ye Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 

From childly wont and ancient use I call — • 

I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite. 

No madness of ambition, avarice, none : 

No larger feast than under plane or pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly warm, 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober, majesties 

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen monster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my will, 

W renching it backward into his ; and spoils 

M/ bliss in being ; and it was not great ; 

For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words, 

To make a truth less harsh, I often grew 

Tired of so much within our little life, 

Or of so little in our Mttle life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end — 



536 



And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade, 

Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, 

Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 

What beast has heart to do it ? And what man, 

What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph thup ? 

Not I; not he, who bears one name with her, 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings, 

When brooking not the Tarquin in her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of Collatine 

And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, 

Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. 

And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks 

As 1 am breaking now ! 

" And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Thr^se blind beginnings that have made me man 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Through all her cycles — ■ into man once more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower — 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself. 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within the grave. 
The very sides of the grave itself shall pa.'Sj?, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, 
Into the unseen forever, — till that hour, 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and pluck "■ 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell. 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at last. 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise. 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 
Without o^e plea&iu'e and without one paii)> 



THE GOLDEN SUrPIiR. 537 

Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine 

Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 

^ woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 

How roughly men may woo thee so they win — 

Thus — thus : the soul flies out and dies in the air." 

With that he drove the knife into his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; ran in. 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd: he answer'd, "Care not thou. 
What matters ? All is over : Fare thee well ! " 



.THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

[This poem is founded upon a story in Boccaccio. 

A. young lover, Julian, whos» cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has 
been wedded to hia friend and rival, Lionel, endeavors to narrate the 
3tory of his own love for her, and the strange sequel of it. He speaks 
of having been haunted in delirium by visions and the sound of bells, 
sometimes tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but 
he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, and a witness to 
It completes the tale.] 



He flies the event : he leaves the event to me : 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away ; the bells, 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and heart ■ — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you saw. 
As who should say " continue." Well, he had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I say ? 
Soiace at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in that hour of his ! 
He moved thro' all of it majestically — 
Restrained himself quite to the close — but now — 

Whether they were his lady's marriage-be'l^; 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 



538 THE OOLDEN SUPPER. 

Were wedded, and our Julian came again 

Back to his mother's house among the pines. 

But there, their gloom, the mountains and the B--y,, 

The whole land weigh'd him down as -^tna does 

The Giant of Mythology : he would go. 

Would leave the land forever, and had gone 

Surely, but for a whisper " Go not yet," 

Some warning, and divinely as it seeni'd 

By that which follow'd — but of this I deem 

As of the visions that he told — the event 

Glanced back upon them in his after life, 

And partly made them — tho' he knew it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not look at her-- 
No, not for months : but, when the eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, aiid said, 
Would you could toll me out of life, but found — 
All softly as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear, 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days without a pulse : 
All that look'd on her had pronounced her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in elm). 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven. 
And laid her in the vault of her own kin. 

What did he then ? not die : he is here and hale - 
Not plunge headforemost from the mountain there, 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap : not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper now. 
Thought that he knew it. " This, I stay'd for this ; 

love, I have not seen you for so long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 

1 wi\l be all alone with all I love. 

And kiss her on the lips. She is his no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the dim vault. 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 539 

And, making there a sudden light, beheld 
All round about him that which all will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her face ; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the vault. 

" It was my wish," he said, " to pass, to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great day 
Peal'd on us with that music which rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand." And kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once was man, 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kissed her more than once, till helpless death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but I wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in death ; 
But, placing his true hand upon her heart, 
" O, you warm heart," he moaned, " not even death 
Can chill you all at once : " then starting, thought 
His dreams had come again. " Do I wake or sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more ? " It beat — the heart — it beat r 
Faint — =■ but it beat : at which his own began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that it drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
But when at last his doubts were satisfied, 
He raised her softly from the sepulchre, 
And, wrapping her all over with the cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burden in his arms, 
So bore her through the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she was born. 



540 THE GOLDEN SUPl'Ei?. 

There the good mother's kindly ministering, 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life : she raised an eye that ask'd 
" Where ? " till the things familiar to her youth 
Had made a silent answer : then she spoke, 
" Here ! and how came I here ? " and learning it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I think) 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
" Ay, but you know that you must give me back : 
Send ! bid him come ; " but Lionel was away, 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none knew where. 
" He casts me out," she wept, " and goes " — a wail 
That seeming something, yet was nothing, born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd nerve, 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had return'd, 
" O yes, and you," she said, " and none but you. 
For you have given me life and love again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell him of it, 
And you shall give me back when he returns." 
" Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, "here, 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to yourself; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay, 
No, not an hour ; but send me notice of him 
When he returns, and then will I return, 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love." And faintly she replicrl, 
" And I will do your will, and none shall know." 

Not know ? with such a secret to be known. 
But all their house was old and loved them botb, 
And all the house had known the loves of both ; 
Had died almost to serve them any way, 
And all the land was waste and solitary : 
And then he rode away ; but after this, 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode aw^ay, 



THE GOLDEN SUPrER. 541 

And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 
There fever seized upon him : myself was then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest an hour ; 
And sitting down to such a base repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it - — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd 
•The moulder'd stairs (for everything was vile), 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A fiat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary coap.t, 
And waited for her message, piece by piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his life ; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her worth, 
Her beauty even ? should he not be taughi, 
Ev'n by the price that others set upon it, 
The value of that jewel he had to guard ? 

Suddenly came her notice, and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, the soul 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' some of U8 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and yet I say, the bird 
That will not hear my call, however sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers him — 
What matter ? there are others in the wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd on earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's seem'd 
No less than one divine apology. 



542 THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her arms ! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! his own 
Sent such a flame into liis face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. 

But he was all the more resolved to go, 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying, him 
By that great love they both had borne the dead. 
To come and revel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land forevermore ; 
And then to friends — they were not many — who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of his. 
And bade them to a banquet of farewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast : I never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one, 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd ; and beneath. 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that. Heaven knows when. 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten sun, 
And kept it through a hundred years of gloom, 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with gems 
Movable and resettable at will. 
And trebling aH the rest in value — Ah heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to say 
That whatsoever such a house as his. 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair. 
Was brought before the guest : and they, the guests. 
Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden hour). 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 



THE &OLDEN SUPPEK. 543 

To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his, 

And that resolved self-exile from a land 

He never would revisit, such a feast. 

So rich, 80 strange, and stranger ev'n than rich, 

But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor, 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the frame. 
And just above the parting was a lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we ate and drank 
And might — the wines being of such nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes. 
And something weird and wild about it all : 
What was it ? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever and anon 
A priceless goblet with * priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his use ; 
And when the feast was near an end, he said : 

" There is a custom in the Orient, friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honor those who feast with him, he brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful. 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom — • " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beautiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a feast ? '* 

The lover answer'd, " There is more than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 



544 THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

This custom steps yet further when the guest 

Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 

For after he has shown him gems or gold, 

He brings and sets before him in rich guise 

That which is thrice as beautiful as these, 

The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 

* O my heart's lord, would I could show you,' he says. 

' Ev'n my heart too.' And I propose to-night 

To show you what is dearest to my heart, 

And my heart too. 

" But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on death. 
His master wo^ld not wait until he died. 
But bade his menials bear him from the door, 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago, 
Who found the dying servant, took him home, 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his Hfe. 
I ask you now, should this first master claim 
His service, whom does it belong to ? him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved his life ? " 

This question, so flung down before the guests. 
And balanced either way by each, at length 
When some were doubtful how the law would hold 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of phrase. 
And he beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as he went 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by. 
Affirming that as long as either lived, 
By all the laws of iove and gratefulness, 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile, 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 545 

As at a strong conclusion — " Body and soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to me 
To bring Camilla down before them all. 
And crossing her own picture as she came, 
And looking as much lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier than all others — on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from under this 
A veil, that seem'd no more than gilded air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that grace of hers. 
Slow-moving as a M^ave against the wind, 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty babe. 
The younger Julian, who himself was crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling it. 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated in, — 
While all the guests in mute amazement rose. 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall, 
Before the board, there paused and stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jewelPd world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to prove, 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 

" My guests," said Julian : " you are honor'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the most beautiful, 
Of all things upon earth the dearest to me." 
Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
35 



546 THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 

And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 

Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 

Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too, 

And heard him muttering, " So like, so like } 

She never had a sister. I knew none. 

Some cousin of his and hers — O God, so like ! " 

And then he suddenly ask'd her if she were. 

She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was dumb. 

And then some other question'd if she came 

From foreign lands, and still she did not speak. 

Another, if the boy were hers : but she 

To all their queries answer'd not a word, 

"Which made the amazement more, till one of them 

Said, shuddering, " Her spectre ! " But his friend 

Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at least 

The spectre that will speak if spoken to. 

Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 

Prove, as I almost dread to find her, dumb ! " 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all : 
'* She is but dumb, because in her you see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke about, 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to-night a guest 
So bound to me by common love and loss — 
What ! shall I bind him more ? in his behalf, 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest to me, 
Not only showing? and he himself pronounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine tp give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all of you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not suffer that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial ; thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his own hall j 
And then rose up, and with him all his guests 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. oil 

Once more as by enchantment ; all but he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he said: 

" Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife j 
And were it only for the giver's sake. 
And tho' she seem so like the one you lost, 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring her back : 
I leave this land forever." Here he ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one hand. 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 
He slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead wife 
Rush'd each at each with a cry, that rather seem'd 
For some new death than for a life renew'd ; 
At this the very babe began to wail ; 
At once they turn'd, and caught and brought him in 
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing him 
With kisses, round him closed and claspt again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
From wife and child, and lifted up a face 
All over glowing with the snn of life, 
And love, and boundless thanks — the sight of this 
So frighted our good friend, that turning to me 
And saying, " It is over : let us go " — 
There were our horses ready at the doors — 
We bade them no farewell, but mounting thesa 
He past forever from his native land ; 
And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. 



548 AT THE WINDOW. 



THE WINDOW, OR THE SONGS OF A WREN. 

ON THE HILL. 

The lights and shadows fly ! 

Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. 

A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye ! . 

O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane, 

When the winds are up in the morning ? 

Clouds that are racing above, 

And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still, 

aW\ running on one way to the home of my love. 

You are all running on, and I stand on tbe slope of the hill, 

And the winds are up in the morning ! 

Follow, follow the chase ! 

And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. 

O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face ? 

And my heart is there before you are come and gone, 

When the winds are up in the merning ! 

Follow them down the slope ; 

And I follow them down to the window-pane of my dear, 
And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear, 
And the winds are up in the morning. 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, Vine and Eglantine, 

Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 

Rose, Rose and Clematis, trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 

Kiss, Kiss ; and make her a bower 

All of flowers, and drop me a flower. 

Drop me a flower. 



519 



Vine, Vine and Eglantine, 

Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine ? 

Rose, Rose and Clematis, 

Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 

Kiss, Kiss — and out of her bower 

All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 

Dropt a flower. 



GONE. 

GoNi "■ Gone till the end of the year, 

Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here 
Gone- — flitted away. 

Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan ; she is there ! she 
is there ! 



WINTER. 

The frost is here. 

And fuel is dear, 

And woods are sear, 

And fires burn clear. 

And frost is here 

And has Ixtten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue wood-louse, and the plump dormouse, 

And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd, 

And you bite far into the heart of the house, 

But not into mine. 



550 THE LETTER. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the searer, 

The fuel is all the dearer, 

The fires are all the clearer, 

My spring is all the nearer, 

You have bitten into the heart of the earth, 

Bat not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song. 
Flying here and there ; 
Birds' song and birds' love. 
And you with gold for hair ! 
Birds' song and birds' love, 
Passing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love. 
To love once and forever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ! 

And you my wren with a crown of gold, 

You my Queen of the Wrens ! 

You the Queen of the Wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 

ril be King of the Queen of the Wrens, 

And all in a nest together. 



f. 



THE LETTER. 



Where is another sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. ) 



NO ANSWER. 551 



Shall I write to her ? Shall I go ? 

Ask her to marry me bye and bye ? 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

Ay or no, if asked to her face ? 

Ay or„no,, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye ! 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 



NO ANSWER. L 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! 

Is it ay or no ? Is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her window-pane ! 
And I may die, but the grass will grow. 
And the grass will grow when I am gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world will go on, 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres. 
No is trouble and cloud and storm, 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm, 

And when I am there and dead and gone. 
The wet west wind and the world will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet ! 

Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 
Is it ay or no ? Is it ay or no ? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may go on. 



552 THE ANSWER. 



NO ANSWER. II. 



Winds are loud and you are dumbj 
Take my love, for love will come. 
Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass I 
Spring is here with leaf and grass : 
Take my love and be my wife. 
After loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you'll love me then : 
Love can love but once a life. 



THE ANSWEll. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Clasp't on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet ? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 



AY! 

Be merry, all birds, to-day, 

Be merry on earth as you never were merry before^ 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away, 

And merry forever and ever, and one day more. 
Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 



WHEN ? 553 

Look, look, how he flits, 

The fire-crowned kmg- of the wrens, from out of the pine . 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad httle tits ! 
" Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! " was ever a May so fine ? 
Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 

C) merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and have your desire ! 
merry my heart, you have gotten the wings of love. 
And flit like the king of the wrens with a crown of Qve. 
Why? 
For it's ay ay ay, ay ay. 



WHEN? 

Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets, 

Love, fiLx a day. 

" A year hence, a year hence.** 
" We shall both be gray." 

" A month hence, a month hence,' 
*• Far, far away." 

" A week hence, a week hence." 

" Ah, the long delay." 
" Wait a little, wait a little, 

You shall fix a day." 

" To-morrow, love, to-morrow, 
And that's an age away." 

Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honor all the day. 



554 THE MARRIAGE MORNINQ. 



THE MAERIAGE MORNING- 

Light, so low upon earth, 

You send a flash to the sun, 
Here is the goHen close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
O the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the wei. 
Stiles where we staid to be kind, 

Meadows in which we met ! 
Light, so low in the vale, 

You flash and lighten afar. 
For this is the golden morning of love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

By meadow and stile and wood ; 
O lighten into my eyes and my heart, 

Into my heart and my blood ! 
Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
O heart, are you great enough for love P 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 



A WELCOME. 555 



A. WELCOME TO THE DUIvE AND DUCHESS 
OF EDINBUEGH. 



March, 1874. 



The Son of him with -whom we strove for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world-domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst his chain — 

Has given our Prince his own Imperial Elower, 

Alexandre vna. 

And welcome, Russian flower, a people's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow I 
From love to love, from home to home you go. 

From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 



The golden news along the steppes is blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are stirred ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard ; 

And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 

The voices of our universal sea. 

On capes of Afric as on clifls of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 

And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna. 



Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life ! — 

Yet Harold's England fell to Norman swords ; 

Yet thine own land has bowed to Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, 

Alexandrovna. 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing, 

And float or fall, m endless ebb and flow ; 

But who love best have best the grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna. 



006 IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. 



And Love has led thee to the stranger land, 

Where men are bold and strongly say their say — ■ 
See, empire upon empire smiles to-day, 

As thou with thy young lover hand in hand, 

Alexandrovna I 

So now thy fuller life is in the "West, 
Whose hand at home was gracious to thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the narrow door ; 

Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again? 

Or at thy coming. Princess, everywhere. 

The blue heaven break, and some diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change the hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna? 
But hearts that change not, love that cannot cease, 

And peace be yours, the peace of soul in soul ! 

And howsoever this wild world may roll. 
Between your peoples truth and manful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales warbled without. 

Within was weeping for thee ; 

Shadows of three dead men 

Walk'd in the walks with me, 

Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in the woods ; 

The Master was far away ; 

Nightingales warbled and sang 

Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 

Still in the house in his coflS.n the Prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 

In courtesy like to thee : 

Two dead men have I loved 

With a love that ever will be : 

Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three- 



tiiE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 

The voice and tlie Peak 

Far over summit and lawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn I 

All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar, 
But thou wert silent in heaven, 
Above thee glided the star. 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all? 
'* I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 

*' A thousand voices go 
To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 
And moan and sink to their rest. 

" The fields are fair beside them, 

The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the deep — 

Pall, and follow their doom. 

" The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the deep ; 
They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep." 

Not raised for ever and ever, 

But when their cycle is o'er, 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the star, 

Pass, and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 

At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The peak is high, and the stars are liigli, 

And the thought of a man is higher. 



5o8 THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 

A voice below the voice, 
And a height beyond the height I 
Our hearing is not hearing, 
And our seeing is not sight. 

The voice and the Peak 
Far into heaven withdrawn. 
The lone glow and the long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of da^n J 



I 



Tlie Syracusan Gossips ( Tlicocritaib XV 

*'Hov fair to tliee the '^entle -foot eel Hours 
Have "brouf^^t Adonis 'back from Acheron: 
Sweet Hoars, and slowest of the Blssed Ones; 
But still they come desired, and ever brin^ 
Gifts to all mortals." 



I 



The Thalysia (Theocritus, Vll. 21-23; 

''V/hither at noonday dost thou dra^ thy fe:-t? 

For nov/ the lizard sle^?ps upon the wall. 

The crested lark is wanderinp: no more — " 



The Enchant re s s ( t lie o c r i tus ,11. 38-41). 

*'Lo, nov7 the sea is silent and the winds 
Are hushed. Not silent is the wretchedness 
Within my breast; hut 1 am all aflame 
V/ith love for him who made me thus forlorn, — 
A thing 01 evil, neitlier miaid nor Vv-if e. " 



